Summer 2002

As there was no entry last year from Rick's old friends in Minneapolis you would likely believe that the boys quit the tradition of getting together on the anniversary of his passing. You would be wrong. A contingent of Rick's friends gathered at the appointed time to continue the tradition of drunken card playing and debauchery, as we have done without fail every year. In what has become known as our annual "Rick Fest", we opened another bottle of mead that Rick gifted one of us at some point, and toasted the man. The passing of a comet at exactly this time was read as an acknowledgement that "Elvis has not left the building." We shared a potluck supper hosted by Bob Wilde, which included the kind of homemade specialties that we know Sturtz would have enjoyed. If he was present this year, as many of us feel, I must say he didn't eat much. So why no letter last year? I have no excuse to offer. Like every other inhabitant of the Minnesota northland, springtime means a lot of work to get done. This year I found myself lying around Paris enjoying the time it took to write this letter to keep the rest of Rick's friends up to date on our happenings. On this beautiful day, it's a pleasure to chronicle the ongoing events of Rick's pals. And we have no plans to discontinue our annual remembrance; before the stock of Sturtz made and labeled bottles of mead runs out in 2014, we have plans to refill the emptied bottles with fresh mead. Yes, the purists among you will say it's the equivalent of having a taxidermist stuff Rick and prop him up at the end of a card table and. Hey, I wish we'd thought of that. And don't get the false impression that this once-a-year event is the only time we think of Rick. Last winter I was reminded of how much grief I gave Rick over his several hundred dollar purchase of a wood lathe; you know, good for making table legs, candlestick holders and. nothing else. Real practical for the guy who drove a fifty dollar car to save money. Then I bought an old Victorian mansion to restore and - wouldn't you know- I can't find anyone with a lathe to turn stairway spindles for me. That damn car accident of so many years go just won't stop biting my ass. I still get pissed off about it. I miss our phone conversations a couple of times a week, boys' night out every week or two. Rick was close to buying a house before he died. By now he would have been paying escalating property taxes for seven or so years and would likely understand the failings of Humphrey Democrat politics. Maybe not. And he'd have suffered through Dylan's latest CD and would have come to realize the world doesn't really need another Leon Redbone. Again, maybe not. But we'd have had a good, long harangue about it. We're missing good years here. They have been good years all the same, I guess. And as long as Rick arranges comets to pass this way each year, we'll just have to be satisfied with knowing we have a friend in high places.