Raymond Wlodkowski

So sorry that I can't be there in person to share stories in commemoration of Raymond's life. Stories are such a huge part of what I, for one, hold dear in memory about Raymond. Stories he told while driving, camping, eating, drinking, hiking, climbing, and in the sauna after playing racquetball (back when racquetball and Raymond's bangs tucked into a terrycloth headband were things). His stories: joyful, rueful. And filled with eccentric characters of varying styles and backgrounds, engaged in acts of dubious intelligence and misguided courage, all of whom seemed to be asking the smartest and dimmest questions of the universe, always struggling to come to grips, never quite succeeding, and usually getting just peripheral-vision glimpses of insight into the grand cosmic joke. I write this on the 6th yahrzeit of the passing of my father, David Oliensis, to whom Raymond was a cherished friend for many many years. Before going into the surgery he would ultimately not survive, my father made his very last phone call. To speak with Raymond. That is just one measure of how important their friendship was to my father. At my father's funeral, Raymond told a story about going skydiving for the first time. With my father. It was a story of comical fear, courage, bonding, and friendship. And in it, my father was the butt of Raymond's loving teasing. It comingled humor, reflection, and affection in a way that represented well the spirit of their friendship. So, in that spirit, and in the spirit of reciprocation, I'd like to share a story about Raymond. In the early 1980s, Raymond, my father, and I went rock climbing in Rocky Mountain National Park. We were roped together behind our climbing guide, working on a sheer pitch that ascended about 75 feet. The guide had led the way, and was belaying Raymond on a long multi-colored rope as he climbed. My father and I watched from below. Raymond got through the first half of the pitch and was maybe 40 feet above us when he ran into a tricky set of moves that tested the limits of his strength and skill. He huffed and puffed a bit, using his arms more than his legs, as most of us mistakenly do when we're terrified, and then with his courage and breath screwed up tight, went for the crux move, the hardest move of the pitch, getting just a bit off balance and reaching just beyond his grasp for the next handhold. At which point his foot slipped off its toehold, Raymond lost his balance, and began to fall. And in this moment, we learned what Raymond was truly made of. He began to bark and whimper, in a voice roughened and rasping with panic, "HOLD ME! HOLD ME! HOLD ME!" Understandably. He was falling. And he responded like a scared 3rd grader we had intuited was always lodged inside him. Of course, the guide's grasp on the rope was firm. Raymond slid down the granite face just a few feet, and then bobbed on the rope, which was just elastic enough under the stress of his weight. And he came to a stop. ...Then regained a handhold and foothold to secure his position. Raymond smiled down at us and said, "I'm OK. I'm OK." We smiled back up at him. Relieved that he was OK. But also, both understanding of what he'd just gone through, on the one hand, and gleeful at the door that had just been flung wide open to ribbing him mercilessly for his outcry. Late that afternoon, as we sat on the porch of our rented cabin, admiring the view of Lumpy Ridge off in the distance, and as the sun mosied toward the horizon, my father popped open another Coors and said, "Hey, Ray?" "Yeah?" "I'm feeling a little lonely... would you, 'HOLD ME! HOLD ME! HOLD ME!'"? Ray laughed. Then started to try to explain himself, but then, re- realizing he was among friends, gave way to laughing again. The last time I saw Raymond was early last spring. At Eggsperience on North Broadway. After catching up and sharing a meal, out on the sidewalk, we started to say our goodbyes, and I believe we gave each other a big hug. I hope we did.