A visit to an old friend at a nursing home reminds me of the true value to be found in friendship.
Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting and doing the things historians usually record, while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is what happened on the banks. Will Durant

He sat there in his room at the Franciscan Care Center, watching television, Wimbledon doubles with those sisters tromping their opponents. He was wearing his workshirt and pants, grey in color, with his name embroidered above the pocket. We walked in, greeted him and sat down to visit. We discussed things that were happening in our lives, in the lives of people he knew, things going on in his community. We asked about his health, and learned what he was going through.

We could tell he was there, but not there. Somewhere in our conversation he said, "I've forgotten a few things."

He had known a life of hardship, and rich reward. He had moved from place to place, started businesses and lost them. He had married a good woman, and raised a family. He was a Mason, a member of the Kiwanis, and could drive just about anything with wheels. He could fix what was broken, or he knew someone who could. He had recently acquired and was breeding cattle of a special English stock, rare in the States, and along with the chickens, the dogs, the garden and the special greenhouse for his bride, lived well on a large plot of land in the country. He had designed and built his own home with the help of his longtime friend Vince, who had eight fingers and one thumb.

He was someone who lived what he believed, and he has a firm belief in the goodness of others, and the power of his God. He had a collection of hats that covered the entire ceiling and two walls of the guest room at home. Each hat had a story, and he knew where they came from and who gave them to him. He ran for public office back in the 60's, a newspaper article in a frame proudly announced. Several awards for his service to the community and the groups he belonged to adorned the wall around it. He is a good man, in the true sense of the word.

He is also a good friend of mine, and one of the most interesting fellows I have ever met. He was there when things were bad for me, with support and comfort, and the offer of a day's work for a day's pay, so that I could feed my family. Just like he has been there for everyone he has ever known.

After a while, he turned to me, and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't remember who you are."

I sat there in stunned silence, thinking of something to say that would tell him how much I had come to love and admire him, especially since the loss of my father. All I could think of to say was, "I am someone you have been very kind to over many years." I wanted to say so much more. I am your friend. So many people have been touched by you! I often use the example of your life as a r