From cjford@altamaha.net Wed May 19 19:04:33 1999
Date: Wed, 19 May 1999 21:58:58 -0600
From: Charlie Ford <cjford@altamaha.net>
To: keen@digital-galaxy.net
Subject: Come on Morning

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How does one even start a writing about the death of oneıs best friend?
How does one sit and through mere words explain the reason you somehow
loved that person so much simply because they somehow loved you so much?

I cannot fathom how to begin to undertake this task, so I will simply write
about him and his nature.  I will leave the gleaning scripting to those
much more articulate than I.

I met Mitch Freitag in Charlotte N.C. in 1980.  I had just moved into an
apartment on the east side of Charlotte after only being in the city for a
few weeks.  Mitch lived in the apartment across the sidewalk and shared his
place with three other fellows, all attending UNCC (University of North
Carolina at Charlotte).

Mitch was older than the rest of the guys in the apartment, but still acted
like any college student you might ever meet.  He was an engineering major
and had a mind that clicked with a great amount of structure.  He even
partied with structure.

Other times he would drift away with conversation that would rival
Socrates, or Plato. All thoughts conveyed in the lay terms of  modern day
man.  He wondered about the matters of spirituality and claimed himself an
agnostic in the early years.  He would say ³Man, I jut donıt know about God
or whether I believe in him or not.²

Me, I was about as free and easy as I have always been when it comes to
life and itıs responsibilities.  Mitch always said that's what he liked
about me, the fact that I could roll with the punches through tough times
and come out on the other side of the ring looking OK.  A little beat up,
but still standing.

I was a believer in God and he and I shared many long conversations with me
giving dissertation on why I ^Ìsaw the lightı, and he challenging and
questioning in his search for that same light.  I am not sure we ever
reached agreement on any one matter, but I know I enjoyed his challenges,
as I am sure he enjoyed my spiritual perspective.  I think respect for one
another is what we always shared.  We never once argued.

Mitch was a pilot and had been flying since he was about the age of nine as
I remember.  His Dad, a pilot before him taught him the rules of flying and
Mitch thoroughly enjoyed his time in the air.  He followed all the rules to
a tee, and never once was not serious about maneuvering his plane in a safe
manner.

He won trophies at Osh Kosh Wisconsin in 1975 I believe.  He won grand
Champion Antique for a J cub he and his Dad restored.  Mitch flew it all
the way to Wisconsin from Charleston, South Carolina without the help of a
radio, using only his map, landmarks, and a compass.  Talk about bold faced
faith!

He was also a guitarist.  He loved James Taylor, Dan Fogelberg, Jackson
Browne, Bonnie Raitt, and others that seem to ooze great lyrics that drive
men to think about the more heartfelt matters of living.  He could play
like a virtuoso rocking gently to the rhythm of whatever tune he played.
He taught me my first three chords and how to finger pick a little.  I am
still not great at it, but I still try.  The next time I saw him I was
going to impress him with some licks of my own.  He would have been proud I
think.

When he picked up his Martin flat top and started to strum you knew that he
had used this as an outlet for years.  He told me once he started trying to
play when he was about 10.  He slacked off in his adult years, but each
time I spoke with him he always said, ³Yeah, I need to play more.²

Mitch and I only spoke every now and then.  Each time, we basically picked
up where the conversation had left off before.  He knew my voice and I knew
his when either of us picked up the telephone.  I always would start off
with a deep guttural ³Hey Bubba² and he always followed by laughing his
high pitched snicker and proceeded to ask ³Where the hell are you at now?
Have you ever had a friend like that, one who knew you so well they could
predict your mood just by the sound of your voice.

I would fill him in on all the news I had, and he would in turn tell me
about how his wife Mary Beth and his son Joseph were doing.  Mary Beth
people filled a void in Mitchıs life soon after he and I met.  He always
said the first time he saw her he knew he was going to marry her.  Unlike
others I have heard say that, I actually believed Mitch.  He was not the
type to say something so strong and not mean it.

After leaving Charlotte, Mitch and I seldom got to see each other.  He
would sometimes call and try to find me, and I would always call and catch
him at home.  He was stable and I wasnıt.  This time that wonderlust threw
me a curve I am having to deal with.

He considered me his ³redneck friend², and I was honored to be called that
by him.  I considered him my best friend of all time.  I loved him so much
and he knew it.  I would have taken a bullet for him if the need had been
there.

I have said before that I have always considered true friends very few and
far between.  There are those that we thin we know but only open up to so
much, as much as comfort says we should.  Mitch was always open to anything
I had to say.  he would listen intently and give me his thoughts no matter
how trivial or off-the-wall the subject was.

I found out this evening that on April 12, 1999 Mitch and his son Joseph
were killed in a plane crash near Hardeville, SC.  The Coroner said they
died instantly without pain.  Mitch radioed in to the tower that he was
experiencing strong high altitude turbulence and that he was requesting
permission to drop to a lower flight path.  That was the last thing that
was heard from his Piper Clipper.  Joseph was they say most likely asleep
in the back seat of the small plane.

Mary Beth, Mitchıs wife and shining light for the past many years said they
called her that morning to let her know they were on their way home.  I am
sure the last words he said to her were ³I love you².  I know this because
I know he did, he told me so.

Mitchıs guitar sits silent now, and our conversation has come to an end.  I
cried today when I heard the news.  He was my best friend and someone that
one only meets once in a lifetime.  That person that you use as a mentor
simply because they want to be that for you, and you want to be that for
them.
Several years ago I gave Mitch and album by Dan Fogelberg.  There was a
song on that album called Come on Morning.  The album over the years became
Mitchıs favorite and his wifeıs favorite.  I believe he told me last time I
saw him a couple years ago that Joseph had even adopted it and knew several
of the tunes by heart.

They played ³Come on Morning² at his funeral and since in my aloofness I
could not be there, I was honored to hear that.  Itıs funny how things work
out  between friends who love music.  He loved rock-n-roll but also enjoyed
mellow equally.

Mitch I will miss you more than you know.  I will miss your laugh, and your
seriousness of thought, and your in-depth perspective on anything at all
that this idiot might bring up.

God greets you now, and I am sure he has a Martin guitar you can use and
most likely have.  Play him the tune about your redneck friend and maybe he
will shine on us to meet again one of these fine days.  Make sure you ask
him some of the questions you asked me that I could not answer adequately
enough.

Take care my brother.  I hope heaven has a par-three golf course.  You and
Joseph mark a place for me on the scorecard.  I will see yaıll one of these
days.  Till then I will speak of you often and never forget my best friend,
nor what he gave to me.

God grant him entrance I pray, for he is a good and kind man with a heart
as big as life itself.  He loves to laugh and he loves to hear it just as
equally.  He learned of you over time, and then he dwelled in your
peacefulness.  Shine on him and let him know that ³There is going to be a
day, there is really no way to say no to the morning.  Yes itıs going to be
a day, and there is really nothing left to say, but come on morning.²

Your brother,
Charlie Ford

(912) 375-3651
cjford@altamaha.net
http://www.digital-galaxy.net/~keen/charlie/charlie.html
"Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and furry, meaning nothing"
Shakespeare