MISSOURI WATCH: A COLUMN 45 YEARS IN THE WRITING

Friendships have an evolution of their own, unique, personal, encompassing, rare.

Their uniqueness begins at their inception, which in this case was 45 years ago this week. They begin without notice, with none of the parties aware of the beginning, and only the end remains certain in their minds, etched there always.

I remember few of the details of the beginning. Like all true ones, the start was casual, even accidental, and neither of us ever mentioned it. As a matter of fact, we seldom mentioned our friendship. It wasn't necessary.

It just existed. No discussion was needed to verify it for we both knew of its existence, which was all that really mattered.

If the genius of friendship is obscure, its progression is equally so. Ours started without scenario. Daily lunches with other friends that always included a menu of jokes, tall tales and laughter. Evenings included dinners with families. Weekend family trips were made to forget daily schedules.

It continued as our children faced the usual diseases, for my friend was a physician in the very best sense of the word. Exceptionally trained in the nuances of his profession, he added a large dose of compassion that took him to patients at all hours of the night. I never heard him complain, even if his bills were always less than the dentist's and the veterinarian's.

Eventually came trips that took us to mental hospitals and mental retardation clinics all over the state. We got to our destinations by car and even shaky single-engine planes. We logged hundreds, then thousands of miles in a quest for improved care for Missouri citizens who lived in quarters little better than snake pits and survived on meals costing less than a $1 a day. We lobbied together in Jefferson City for political support, an art my friend practiced with the skill of his congressman father.

As friends do, we traveled everywhere. We were in Washington when Jack Kennedy left for a campaign trip to Dallas. On that occasion my friend had returned for a visit to his medical school and heard about the president's death on the same elevator he learned of Franklin Roosevelt's death.

As the years advanced, our travels diminished but old rituals continued, like wine richer with age. New Year's Eve was a tradition, long dinners were the rule because there was always conversation about everything: the day's news, politics, opera, the latest book, recollections of mutual joy as old as our friendship or as recent as last week.

In all of this time, there was never an unkind word, an argument, an accusation. My friend never mentioned my obvious shortcomings and I never mentioned any of his failings for in my eyes he never had any. As well as being an exceptional healer, he was almost as good at golf. I imposed on his good nature as a golfer but rarely, for when he played a round with me, I felt he was lowering his game to mediocre status. I contributed to his enjoyment of golf by not playing the game.

Following tradition we welcomed 1995 as usual. The difference was my friend knew he was dying. So did I. His acceptance of his fate was remarkable, laced with optimism and good cheer that characterized every moment of his life.

Even as his illness grew worse, we still took trips. Only this time we drove to Memphis where he received the treatments to combat his illness. Never did he complain, never did he despair, even as his condition worsened with each trip.

The final days of his illness were the most difficult. For everyone. Seeing him suffer, without complaint, made it all the more painful. When his pain grew all the more unbearable, even this friend prayed that he be spared another moment of agony.

We said good-bye as my friend's hand weakly sought mine, held it briefly and then the weakness took his hand away. In hours, he was dead. My friend died as he lived, bravely, without complaint, with dignity.

Some would say our friendship ended with his death but it hasn't. Friendships never end even when one leaves and one stays behind. They only wait to be renewed at some other time, some other place.

On this 45th year of our friendship, I just wanted to write, Joe, and say "Happy Anniversary."

~Jack Stapleton of Kennett is the editor of Missouri News and Editorial Service.