My friend died the other day. He was sick and in a care home. He had just turned 66. There is no way to really to pay homage to him, he was full of life for sure. My first real memory of him was us on a swing set. It was the Fort Alexander Indian Residential School. We never called it that, it was the Boarding school; everyone in the Reserve called it that. He was moved to another Boarding School in Winnipeg. So we didn't see him all that often growing up, just once in a while. His life was filled with adventure, mishap and encounters with the law. We did run into each other walking on a street in Winnipeg. From there we had a life long relationship. Not just a relationship of being from the same Reserve but being oldest friends.
I was saying at this funeral service of how we live one life but really we lived many lives and he lived thousands of lives. The fun we had, the criminal acts we did, the dangerous situation we were in, and the bond we had. He was good to my wife. He was always Uncle to the kids. He was intelligent, good looking, compassionate, kind and troubled. He carried the Demons of the Boarding Schools, foster homes, juvenile corrections and jail. His demons followed him and tripped him up many times. He would be doing well, making high level connections and when it was going to well for him, he would sabotage himself.
When he died he took many of my secrets with him. He also took many lifetimes of stories. He was a great story teller. Making jail sound so much fun, one of the listeners said, "oh I wish I was there." The guy actually thought jail was a fun place to be, because of Earl's stories.
We were bonded but we were opposites. He was addicted and I only actively indulged with alcohol for about 3 or 4 years. He was cool, calm under pressure, while I was volatile and high strung. He was naturally smart while I had to work at it. He was multi-talented while I was one dimensional. We both carried demons. His demons manifested in addictions. My demons manifested in wickedness. We both tried to do right by people. Failed many times at it, but lived through the aftermath. I remember one time he had passed out from drinking; a fucking piece of shit bully took a fish knife and cut lines on his face. Like the Jack Nicholson joker. When my friend was healed I was so mad. I picked him up and took him driving around looking for the guy, I had a handgun was taking my friend to go and shoot this fucker. "Maano, maano" was my friend. I didn't find the guy at his home. We were friends with this creeps younger brother and Earl didn't want him to be hurt.
Like many heroes, he would need rest. When we were younger he would be able to stop abusing for periods of time, later in life, addiction did consume him. Still he held onto his Spirit. He was good. I told him many times how such a smart guy can do such stupid shit to himself. I was fortunate to have him as a friend. We had many disagreements, many falling outs, but we always found our friendship still intact. No matter how rough it became between us, we never stopped loving each other. I did love my friend. Its funny because growing up in our times, love was never said to anyone, except maybe your partner, the Woman in your life. No love said to your Mom, never to your Dad or your siblings.
I was telling my cousin how weird it feels. My friends are dying. Heroes do die.
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