19

I got an email yesterday notifying one of my best friend’s father died. John was my best friend during grade school. We lived in a rural portion of South East Boise. We were pretty close and slept over at each other’s house every other weekend it seemed. In doing so it is hard not to incorporate or integrate the host’s family into your own in some weird way.

Mr. Cantrell was ten years younger then my dad. My dad seemed old to me in so many ways where as Mr. Cantrell seemed much younger. John seemed to know his dad much more intimately I thought I would never know mine. Mr Cantrell had served in the Navy during World War two and this was a big deal to me. I did not know anyone else who had (that I was aware of). Mr.Cantrell worked for Idaho power, he was a lineman—he wore a hard hat drove this gigantic IP truck and smoked a pipe.

Sitting here trying to remember conversation I had with Mr Cantrell, I cannot except one at the breakfast table one Saturday morning. Mrs. C had serves up a huge breakfast of scambled eggs, bacon and toast. We weren’t allowed to eat bacon in my home ( a long story I will someday write but suffice it to say,our house lived a lot of the Messianic order). In fact, that was one of the great parts of a Cantrell sleep over was the high probably of having pork in one form or another. The Cantrells had six kids and we were in the middle so we usually just sort of blended in with the other. Any way this specific instance I was reaching for some perfectly done bacon and Mr. C. stated that he thought mormons could not eat bacon. I was stunned –I, of course, knew this but did not think Dr. C. did. I was caught, he knew but how? There were other moments of conversations but they are a blur now to be lost to antiquity.

One of the most vivid memories I have of Mr. Cantrell is of him sitting in his big green. Easy boy recliner. I would be laying on the floor next to John, on a Friday night, watching what ever was on their color TV. Don with his chores Mr Cantrell sat back in his chair, shoes off, and would select of his five or so pipes( which sat in a pipe stand right next to his chair) ritualistically fill, tap and light. Once he had a fine bowel lit he would puff seemingly giant blue clouds of smoke. This fascinated me.

Even if I had ever had the time or opportunity I don’t know if I would have asked Mr Cantrell the questions I would have wanted to like: What did you do during the war? How did you get to Boise? Did you always work for Idaho Power. What did you want to do growing up? Hopefully John orTom has all that information and I will get out of them someday if it is important enough to me.

The e-mail was from Tom, John’s older brother, I appreciate the notification. Tom indicated about his dad“ he had a good run” and I think he did. I wished I lived closer to Boise I would attend the funeral as they attended my Dad’s. I just hate to see the old ones go.