WHY DO THE "GOOD" DIE YOUNG?

"But I don't want to think about tomorrow

What if tomorrow never comes?

Take me to a place without the sorrow

The story's gettin' old, where the good die young."

(From: Koe Wetzel's song "Good Die Young.")

My late wife, Elaine (Langlois Vaughan) was a champion friend maker. Once she met you, you were her friend for life.  She always cemented her relationships with telephone calls, Hallmark cards on special occasions, product rebates, and gift cards that met a recipient's needs.

One day, while waiting in line at a department store, she introduced herself to another lady in line, and they became fast friends.

The lady's name was Mrs. Gail Bourgeois. She was tall and beautiful and married to a gentleman with a famous name, Pierre Bourgeois.  The family had recently moved to Maryland from San Francisco when her husband was offered an advanced job at the Social Security Administration (SSA).

Elaine and I spent a lot of time with the handsome Bourgeois family.  I learned a lot from Pierre, a "gifted" individual.  For instance:

He showed me how to make "raised" vegetable gardens.  (His veggies were always big and tasty, while mine were little, off-color and "Blah!")

We took a wine-making class together.  He made raspberry wine that was delicious, even after a short aging period.  My berry wine was ok, but it needed work and a long aging period. (He graciously gave us some of his wine, which we enjoyed.)

In 1974, I made a lot of wine.  I even experimented with dandelions and peapods. Almost 47 years later, in 2021, I opened the last bottle of my peapod wine and it had aged well, thanks to Pierre's advice. I drank it heartily, toasting my friend, Pierre Bourgeois!

Back in 1974, we planned to go to another wine-making class and when he didn't show up for the ride, I called his home to find out if there was a problem. He was supposed to be home from a trip to The Outer Banks. A woman answered the call and when I asked to speak to my friend, she said: "Pierre is no more."  

The news hit me like a blow to my solar plexus.  Pierre had died during the family's trip.  The woman who answered my call was his mother, a well-known artist who flew in from California.

His mother painted a beautiful ocean scene for us to look at and remember her son. I have it right here next to me.  It is a prized possession.

His wife, Gail, planted a blooming azalea bush in our front yard in his memory.  After all these years it has grown massively and gives pleasure when viewed.

I've written this today in memory of a friend who was taken from us at a very early age and I ask ... 

"Why did this 'good' man with great potential die young?"

 Requiescat in pace, mon ami.

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