(Each May, as I welcome the special piece of Americana that is our town’s annual Rhododendron Festival, it also reminds me of saying goodbye to a best friend. As a tribute to him and the impact our friendship had — and continues to have — on my life, I post this every year when I see the first pieces of the Ferris wheel come together…)
As I walked to work this morning, the sun was still resting below distant Badger Mountain. The streets were quiet and the air was still as I made my way along the sidewalk, past the carnival that claims the visitors parking lot across from our home each year. Last night it was alive with the sounds of oiled metal grinding behind colorful facades — rocket ships, dragons and race cars — as carnival-goers screamed and laughed in rhythmic cycles throughout the evening.
But this morning, the neon lights are out. The colorful merry-go-round is draped in blue tarps. There are no screams or laughter. Only the occasional murmur of snoring from inside the narrow carnie sleeping quarters stacked side by side on tractor trailer beds. I cut through the carnival, stepping over a braid of thick electrical cables that eventually spread like veins through the park, bringing life to thrill rides, snack shacks and carnival barker microphones.
Each year, I make this walk to work through the Davis Carnival.
And each year, I think of my friend — and the memory of a warm, terrible spring evening that occurred this same night more than a decade ago…
It’s a strange juxtaposition I find myself in, watching the arrival of the carnival and seeing the excitement in the eyes of our children. But as the rides are hammered together late into the evening, I am reminded of the night 14 years ago when my best friend called to tell me he was coming back home to Oregon — because he was dying.
He was 30 years old.
I had been working late at the newspaper that evening and was just heading out the door when my cell phone rang. Seeing that it was my friend, I stopped in the open doorway and leaned against the jam, enjoying the spring air and watching the Ferris wheel begin its first revolution in preparation for opening night. It was well past dusk, and the strobing and spinning lights of the carnival were like shooting stars, rising into the night sky and reflecting off the surface of the nearby Siuslaw River. As my friend spoke, I found myself watching The Zandar, a spinning hub routinely hosed down after launching people’s stomach contents. When the words “cancer” and “inoperable” escaped the phone, my world began to spin as well. I remember slowly sliding down the jam, and the feel of the strike plate gouging my back until I had collapsed into a hunched position. He explained the ocular cancer, which had taken his left eye nearly two years earlier, had returned and spread to his brain and organs through his lymph nodes. He had less than three months. In the distance, I heard the first screams of carnival goers and, for only the third time in my life, I wept uncontrollably…
In September of 1995, I received a letter from my mother. Included with it was something she’d cut out of the local paper, something written by a young man who, that July, had become the new sports editor for the Siuslaw News. As I unfolded the three-column rectangle of news print, a smiling face appeared below the wide brim of an Australian-style hat.
The face was kind. Genuine. And in the eyes was a vibrancy and glean that transcended the black and white newspaper page.
Long before I actually met Jason F. Jensen, I somehow knew that his eyes were blue. That he walked with his hands in his pockets. That he preferred hiking boots over Reeboks. And that his wit was sharp, but never cruel.
As I read the last paragraph of my mother’s letter, she closed with a mixture of whimsey and intuition:
I hope you can meet each other some day; I know the two of you would be great friends.
I then sat down to read “Breathe easy, young man,” Jason’s first column for the Siuslaw News, and was immediately taken by the description of his escape from the San Bernandino Valley — a 15 mph getaway in his “violent-yellow” VW van that marked his return to Oregon after a year of living in the “coffee-colored haze” of southern California.
In his writing was a mixture of truth and vulnerability laced with subtle humor — qualities that were a direct reflection of his natural disposition as both explorer and astute observer of life.
By the following afternoon, the column had been laminated and posted on our refrigerator door.
Three years later, we arrived back in Florence with our possessions, our plans to settle down, our new jobs and our refrigerator — column still in place. It wasn’t until months later, while visiting some friends, that a lanky figure descended the stairs into the living room, hands in his pockets. He had hiking boots on, and his blue eyes greeted us long before the words could leave his mouth. As he pulled his wide-brimmed hat into place, I blurted, “You’re the guy on my refrigerator!”
One might say that from those words, our friendship began.
But, I’d have to disagree; in actuality, it started long before that. Long before my mother decided to clip that first column from the newspaper. Long before he sat in this very newsroom and wrote a story about returning home that remains on our refrigerator to this day. I believe that true friendship begins long before a handshake or shared laugh. It’s something set into motion and meant as a gift for staying on pace with your life.
Make the right decisions and remain true to yourself, and you will find the gift of true friendship.
Based on that belief, I’d have to say that returning to Florence was the best decision I ever made. Jason became one of my truest friends, closest confidants, and the godfather to my son (And yes, Jason could do a mean Marlon Brando).
If friendship is the metronome of life, I’d have to say Jason’s was paced with absolute precision — a notion made evident by the ever-widening circle of friends he made in his 30 years of life.
When it all comes down to it, love is the only real measure of success. It’s the only thing worth taking with you, and the most lasting gift you can leave behind.
Jason, should you ever question your measure of success in this life, take a look at our refrigerator door —
And breathe easy, young man.
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(Ned Hickson is a syndicated columnist with News Media Corporation. His first book, Humor at the Speed of Life, is available from Port Hole Publications, Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble.)
Ned's Blog 
Lovely.
It’s just a beautiful tribute Ned, thank you for sharing it
Thank you for letting me share my friend with you.
Just as poignant to read this year as in the past. I love that you re-post it. Beautiful friendship that I am, frankly, envious of.
I appreciate those kind words, Susan, and for taking the time to share in that friendship with me each year.
What a sweet tribute.. So often special people cross our paths and we are blessed to be touched by their presence. I’m so sorry for your loss, even though it was 14 years ago. Some deaths are still difficult. My dad has been gone for the same number of years…. I miss his all the time.
Big hug to you, Courtney.
Back atcha Ned! {{{hugs}}}
A beautiful tribute Ned. Thank you for sharing these precious moments with us.
Thanks for being a part of that sharing of my friend, Paul. Jason was the kind of person who literally had friends all over the world. His presence in the blogosphere all these years later seems fitting 😉
One of my favorites….you are such a good writer–thank you for sharing this again (tears and contemplation always follow reading this). Big tight hug…
Big tight hug back, Janet 😉 I so appreciate your kind thoughts and words. See you at Safeway?
Love it, Ned. We should all be so fortunate to have such friends.
Thank you so much. His friendship was definitely a blessing in my life — and continues to be.
Thanks for sharing that beautiful, most intimate tribute and part of you Ned. I’m sorry for your loss. ❤
Thanks, Debby. In spite of how it all ended, I wouldn’t trade a moment for the good fortune of having him as my friend.
Absolutely not Ned. And I’ve been in your shoes with the loss of a friend at a young age. It stings.
PS Did you vote for the Blogger Bash awards yet? You do know you’re one of the nominees? Wonder how your name got there? Lol. Drop by my blog and click on my latest blog and the link will take you to Sacha’s voting page. Go vote for yourself. Hey, why not tick off my name while you’re there. 😉 Good luck!
I DID find out, and thank you! I voted for you (naturally!) and also for Ross Murray. I would feel weird voting for myself. Especially if I won by I vote… 😉
Omg, you didn’t vote for yourself? Who cares, nobody will see. I have no shame. I voted for myself, lol.
I was happy to see your blog making the nominee list. I hope we win! 🙂
Have a great weekend. 🙂
Lol! Thanks, Debby! You too!
🙂
A beautiful tribute, Ned. It seems it’s always these special people that we are blessed with, that are called home before we’re ready.
So true, and I suppose we’re never ready.
A stirring tribute to a beautiful soul gone too soon. So glad you had the chance to know him.
Thank you, Jane. I feel very blessed for the chance to call him friend.
If a man is to be measured by the company he kept and the impact he left on them… then Jason was indeed worthy.
And then some.
I appreciate that, my friend.
Wow….another year. I never get tired of reading your Jason tribute. Crazy how a memory can both comfort and haunt us. Hoping with each year that the memories are more comforting than haunting. Xo
Ps: that photo!! You need to show us more photography 🙂
Thanks so much, Michelle. I always ask myself before posting this piece each year, “Will other people find it relevant?” One thing I’ve come to realize is that true friendship never loses its relevance in other lives. Plus, Jason had friends literally all over the world, without the Internet. It seems especially fitting that I can help spread his message and make friends around the world with him today 😉
And as for the photography, I may start a separate blog for that at some point. Like I need another project… Haha!
Old friends, memories, and celebrating people who leave too soon…always relevant. Happy Friday!
So nice, Ned. Some points in our lives are magical-made so by the people we come across. Beautiful tribute.
Thank you, Robert. And you are so very right about the people who make our lives magical. Jason was obviously one of them. I’m blessed to say so is my wife. Every day.
He must have been an incredible person. What a beautiful way of introducing him to all of us and at the same time inspiring us so very much… My eyes are teary, my heart is heavy for your loss. And for the loss of one of our dear friends. He had blue eyes too and cancer took him way too early as well. Some people enter our lives unexpectedly, touch us so very deeply and leave way too early. But they leave something behind and maybe that was the reason why they entered our lives in the first place. Thank you so much for sharing this! I will never look at my refrigerator door the same way again. And that’s not a bad thing…
It sounds like we are kindred spirits in a way, through the gift of having these people in our lives. Thank you for sharing that with me 😉
🙂
Such a beautiful, heartfelt tribute. The true measure of a friendship has nothing to do with the amount of time shared. It has to do with the impact on our spirit. You were lucky to have experienced each other. Enjoy the memories. And thanks for sharing him with us.
Found you through Sandra at A Momma’s View.
Thank you so much for the kind words; and so very true. I appreciate you reading and sharing my friend’s memory 😉
I don’t know Jason, but this tribute is so beautiful and yet fragile in a way. Maybe it’s my feeling getting the better of me, but he sounds like a wonderful person.
Thanks so much for reading, Jacqueline. And your instincts are correct; he was a truly wonderful friend and person 😉
A truly spellbinding memoir, Ned. The world would be a much better place if we had more people like Jason to show us the way.
I couldn’t agree more, Allan. Thanks so much for reading, and for the kind words.