Randy Cooke 1957 - 2008

My friend Randy died this week. We were inseparable growing up. As a ten-year-old I moved down the street from him and we both knew immediately we'd found kindred spirits. We were bright and adventurous and together we rollicked our way through adolescence. As kids we played ball together, wrestled, made up games, watched TV and had countless sleepovers. In junior high we listened to the same music, developed the same taste in girls and together discovered a great love for the outdoors.

We loved to go camping--never at campgrounds, but out in the country and away from people and civilization. I couldn't count the number of nights we slept in our little pup tent, cooking our food over a fire and talking about all the things that seemed so profoundly deep and important in our blossoming youth. We remained close in high school, although we both found other friends. But we grew our hair long, did crazy things and read the same books--everything we could find by Carlos Castaneda, Kurt Vonnegut, Herman Hesse and others.

After graduation our lives diverged and over time we lost touch, I think partly because it was so painful to recognize we'd grown apart--that we no longer had common ground, the terra firma of our friendship that had made growing up tolerable. So for many years we rarely spoke, which I now regret deeply. But he came to the funerals of of both my parents, which I greatly appreciated, although in the bustle we hardly had time to talk.

Then, the last time I was in Duluth, I felt inspired to look him up. We got on the phone and immediately it was like no time had passed, no signs of the awkwardness I had feared. We quickly made plans to see each other and one Saturday morning I sat down to one of his delicious omelettes and delightful conversation with him and Mary Jo. In showing me a short cut back to Duluth Heights we were close enough to my destination that I invited him to come meet my family, which he did. I was as pleased to show them off to Randy as I have ever been in my life. We all chatted a while, but were headed out of town and had to leave. We hugged, and that's the last time I saw him.

Randy didn't have a computer (or a cell phone!) but I wrote him a few times in the past year--real letters that arrive with a stamp from a uniformed mailman. Then I heard from Mary Jo that he was sick with cancer and things weren't looking good. So I called and we spoke, and for the past few weeks I have called while he was home alone during the day and we've relived the bittersweet memories of our youth.

Randy was a unique spirit. He had a style of walking and talking that was distinctive and memorable--like a throwback to our hippie days, but embedded with a bemused kindness. I used to kid him that he had what Vonnegut once described as echolalia--as he would often repeat the last word of the sentence you had just spoken. It seemed to me a pleasant affirmation and a charming quirk.

I always admired the fact that he followed his moral compass with a navigator's precision. We may not have agreed on many things but it would never occur to me to question his personal integrity. He did what he thought was right in a matter-of-fact and unassuming way, a rare example of discipline and fortitude. He kept the same job for 27 years, and moved so he could walk to work. After his diagnosis, but when he was still able, he fixed up everything in the house, replacing appliances and putting things in shape for Mary Jo.

Like me, Randy never lost his love for the outdoors, and had developed a passion for kayaking. (He told me that one of the hardest things was putting up the kayaks, knowing it was for the last time.) Randy had also become a fine cook and a talented gardener and landscaper. He was a great companion to Mary Jo, his life-long love. He was a steady and reliable brother to his siblings. And he was, in the beginning and the end, my friend.

The world has lost someone that made it a better place. He will be missed.