Dear Folks, This will probably be a long story but I know that I have to write it down. So you're in for it! I know that I've mentioned my friend Ken the Contractor on a number of occasions. Most recently I told you that he was the one who managed to bring my laundry room up from my basement and install it all in my old "copier room" on the first floor. Our relationship started back in early May 1985 when both of us were drilling reservists at the Naval and Marine Corps Reserve Center in Buffalo. I was a Chief Petty Officer and he was a Warrant Officer 4. We drilled with different units there. At noontime one weekend I sat across the chow hall table from a Master Chief Petty Officer who I barely knew but we got engaged in conversation. As a consequence I told him that I had recently gone into the free-lance bookkeeping business for small businesses who needed someone to keep their books for them. I had a flyer with me regarding my services and I gave it to him. Shortly before secure time the Master Chief came into my office and told me that he had someone he wanted me to meet and that the three of us would get together at the Chief's Club afterward. That sounded intriguing to me. At the club the Master Chief introduced me to Mr. (Ken) Smith and before we had hardly taken our first few sips of beer, the conversation started rolling. Ken had just gone into the construction business and he was in dire need of someone to keep his books and take care of his payroll. He didn't have a proper office as such and so my services were a God-send to him. We set up a date to meet at my house to discuss the setup and a few days later he showed up. It didn't take me long to understand what sort of books I would have to set up regarding expenses for materials, supplies, payroll, etc. and I let him know that I was already experienced in payroll and payroll tax returns. Not only that but I could pay his invoices and payroll out of his business bank account if he would trust me to give me free reign with issuing checks signed by me for his business. When he left we were both happy campers. I had a long-term client and he had a good trustworthy bookkeeper. Over the years we both struggled together to keep his business going as smoothly as possible. And during our conversations in my office we also talked about our personal Navy experiences. He was one helluva Craft Master in charge of an LST and he told me magnificent stories about his experiences. I on the other hand told him about my earlier days in the Naval Aviation and more than that, we swapped stories of the ultimate disappointments that we both went through during our mutual 30-year naval careers. Note: when it came time for my retirement ceremony in 1987, Ken made certain he was in proud attendance. I kept his books up to around 1991 which was when the construction business around here took a serious downturn. But during those intervening years Ken and his men shored up my old barn and put new siding on it, put in a new bathroom on my second floor, built me a porch on the front of my house and put a new roof on my house. I had carpenters, plumbers, electricians, roofers and dry-wall experts all over my house and property. Ken charged me for materials and labor and added only a small percentage as a profit to himself. It's now over ten years later and once again I called on him, this time to put in a new laundry room upstairs for me. He did a great job but let me tell you what happened just a few days ago. He showed up on my doorstep during my dinner hour. I welcomed him in but I sensed that he had a lot on his mind. He pulled up a chair at my kitchen table across from me and neither he nor I minded that I continued to eat the dinner I had prepared for myself while we talked. I eventually realized that he came over to my house to download on me what the latest awful situation was that he was currently going through. Between bites of my fried chicken I responded with serious comments (including a bit of sailor swearing) in empathy. When we had exhausted the subject and I had taken my dinner plates over to the sink, I sat down at the table again. It was then that I told him that he was the only one who had ever sat across from me while I picked up my fried chicken with my fingers, licked my fingers, my elbows sprawled all over the table and with my hair a complete disaster and didn't wince at all. I felt completely comfortable with him. His response was only that we were shipmates and things like that didn't matter in the least. His parting comment was his confession that the only reason he stopped by that night was to have someone to bitch to about his current disaster and that he knew that he could count on me to listen and understand. I guess that's a good definition of a true shipmate. vee