Dave was the first to fall.
In my adult life, he was the first to get married.
We were still in university, or barely just finished.
I was so green in the world, the bruise from falling off the cabbage cart hadn’t healed yet. Back then, in my salad days, I still had leaves of that stuff behind my ears. These days, it’s kimchi. But back then, I was still pretty fresh.
His family had some Scottish heritage. I think his now wife’s family did too. When two Scotts get married in the colonies, that can mean only one thing: Men in skirts.
IT’S NOT A SKIRT!
IT’S A KILT YA DAFT BASTARD!
Oh boy oh boy.
There is no way on this good earth that I could ever tire of a Scott shouting those words at me. Better yet, I was a member of the wedding party. We all had to wear these heavy, wool, Scottish skirts.
IT’S NOT A SKIRT!
IT’S A KILT YA DAFT BASTARD!
(sigh. See what I mean? It feels good to imagine a red-faced Scottsman shouting about his lack of pants)
Dave was one of best friends in Junior high and the beginn…
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