A few years ago, I was invited to join a bunch of dice-rolling, whiskey-swilling hooligans at an annual tabletop gaming retreat called Whiskey Weekend.

I was amazed how quickly I fit in and bonded with the group. With my neurodiversity, I don’t make friends easily or often, nor am I comfortable in social situations. One of the people I connected with quickly was Ace. I suspect this was a combination of our similar senses of humor and my willingness to play any game he rolled out. On a future weekend, I gave him some 3D-printed token holders for Everdell, one of his favorite games. His gratitude became delight when I revealed I’d bought my own copy of Everdell because of him.

About two years ago, he shared some rough news with us. Cancer. In the time leading up to our 2024 weekend, he told us he had chemo scheduled the first Saturday of our retreat. He was going to come up briefly and then jump into the treatments. He was in good spirits, and I could tell he enjoyed even that brief time with us. He offered us silicone bracelets as part of his journey – mine disappeared after Benji snagged it for his stuffies to wear – but I believe it conveyed Ace’s philosophy of staying strong and seizing the day.

Knowing how much he loved the event, I wanted to do something special. I wanted to help him feel like he could still experience some of the weekend, even from a distance. So I did two things.

The first was for the group. I 3D printed tabletop minis for everyone to paint and wrote little stories so people could mix and match. More info here. I gave Ace first pick and he was able to make his selection before he had to leave. I later heard he painted it right away and had a fun time. I wish I could have seen the results.

The second was for Ace himself. The whiskey part of Whiskey Weekend involves a double-elimination tournament where we do a blind taste test every hour. I brought little empty bottles for each entry so Ace could sample the same selection he would have gotten with us. It was perhaps a small comfort, considering Ace looked forward to the weekend more than anyone, but he seemed truly touched. I hope he was able to enjoy the drinks and think fondly of Weekends past. I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him. I never got a chance to ask.

Friendship is wonderful, strange, magical thing. I think I’d been together with Ace less than 10 times, and yet, I quickly, easily considered him a good friend. I don’t think I knew his actual name for two years.

And so, I found myself at my first Jewish funeral today.

Upon my arrival, I made sure to ask if there were any religious protocols I should observe and was handed a traditional kippah. I took a new Ace bracelet: “Memento Mori” and “Live Now” it read. I contemplated the words as I sat in the sanctuary.

The service began with a beautiful chant. A person does not need to speak a language to understand the sentiment or the power it has over an audience. Following came scripture and stories about Ace. I heard many unfamiliar words during the service, but I also heard passages that I’d learned growing up Lutheran. It was a nice reminder that, while we have differences across cultures and religions and the other things that make us uniquely human, “we are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike,” to quote Maya Angelou. I also appreciated seeing traditions different than my own, an important thing for all of us to experience, lest we live in our cloistered little worlds with people who only look and believe and think like us.

I talked with three friends afterwards, and we shared some additional memories of Ace. Then it was over and we parted, each conveying how we looked forward to our next retreat together. Each knowing it would be bittersweet.

So, how does one honor a life? I’ve written about it before. Sometimes the words come easily. Others, they come very, very hard – I still can’t read that second post without getting choked up.

Today, as I drove to Ace’s funeral, I knew exactly what to write. This post was the first. As a writer, I have no better way of expressing my fondness for a person. I’m rarely able to speak with such clarity. It also helps me process my grief.

The other thing I do is put a person into my books. While there’s an old saying that goes something like, “Be nice to a writer or they’ll do something terrible to you in a story,” the last thing I want in my books is someone I don’t care for. But what I do want instead, is to take fond memories and turn them into important characters. It might seem like a small thing, or perhaps a silly thing if you’re not a writer. To me, I can offer no better memorial.

And so, in my car this morning, I added hope to my grief, and wrote this for Tildy’s second book:

Tildy looked at the blacksmith she thought she knew. Everyone called him Ace, even though he had another name in faith that was longer than most Human’s names.

He had lost enough weight as to make him nearly unrecognizable. The tremendous (and scratchy) beard still drooped from his jaw like a straw broom. His eyes still twinkled as he joked with his patrons. As she approached, she pretended to poke his belly, her finger stopping at the point it had once reached. “There’s a lot less of you,” she whispered. “Are you a shapeshifter?”

Stern eyes glowered back. “What an impertinent thing to say!” For a moment, a shadow crossed his face, like the pain of an old memory. He leaned forward, his thinning face transforming like the sun emerging from the clouds. With a whisper of his own, he said, “In a manner of speaking, I would say that I am.” He took her pointing finger and shook it in greeting. He patted his smaller tummy, the back of his hand revealing a black ace tattoo crossed with a hammer and red dice.

Thinking his weight changed uncontrollably like her own, she said, “I don’t meet many like me.” She ignored the small disapproving voice between her ears that warned against sharing her own shapeshifting secret. “At least, not many that are outward about who they are.”

His eyes expanded briefly, as though about to laugh, but they changed quickly to something like reverence. “Ahhhh,” he said, as he took a knee before her. In a voice so quiet she could barely hear, he said, “I greet you, Chensary.” He pressed something metal into her hand, as though it were the reason for his gesture.

Hearing the Dryad’s word for priestess, Tildy covered her mouth in surprise.

“Your secret was already known to me, though not even your witch-mother is aware of my connections to the wider world. Not today, but soon, the three of us shall speak more.” He stood and turned her around, giving her shoulder a nudge to indicate she should leave without another word. “Shoo now, little urchin! Seize upon this beautiful day!”

As she returned to daylight, he called to her, “Tell your rogue friend Fietha that his gambling purse is always welcome at my table. I eat like a king off his losings!” With a rough, high laugh that threatened to become a wheeze, the man turned to attend an impatient Gronth that hulked nearby.

Tildy took a last look at him before returning to her mother, having the feeling that Ace had some larger role to play in her life. She kept the metal item hidden in her hand, expecting it was something to keep to herself.

That’s only a first draft, and it needs some polish (in particular, I don’t like Tildy’s last paragraph). However, I’ve found that when your heart speaks to you, it is best to write the sentiment before it slips like water through your fingers. It’s more representative of your feelings and more honest, which is what you owe your Readers. I now have an interesting new character in my hero’s life, and one who means so very much to me.

I hope this post, which is intended to help people with grief, in small part helps me fulfill the request of Ace and his family. They asked we give tzedakah in his memory, which is a charge to go into the world to help others. It is seen as an act of generosity and justice in Judaism.

I think that’s a very noble request and something the world needs more. Thank you for reading.

–Mike

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(C) Michael Wallevand, November 2024