by the Night Writer
It’s a rainy day, and unexpectedly cold for August. I’m reading an elegy by Patti Smith for her friend, Sam Shepard, and thinking about lines of acquaintance and connection.
Shepard lived for a time in Stillwater, MN; a friend of mine talked to him once in a store about Sorel boots. I saw Smith in concert one time, under duress, when another friend pleaded with me to drive him the 3 hours to Kansas City, and back again, for the show in exchange for a free ticket and the unfulfilled promise to help with the driving on the return trip because I was already operating on almost zero sleep. Miraculously, we survived, as young people so often do.
Shepard died last week of ALS; a disease with which I am also acquainted. Coincidentally, I learned yesterday that my life insurance company believes I still have ALS, turning down my nine-month-old request for supplemental coverage. In the resulting flurry of emails and phone calls between me, them and the Mayo, this article was sent to my attention by another friend.
And I am reminded again of how good it is to pay attention to your friends.
