Spike wanted to become a crappie bed when he died. He wanted me to tie old Christmas trees and lead weights to his arms and legs and sink him to the bottom of his favorite fishing hole. There were certain promises I'd keep for Spike, but I always wavered about turning him into a crappie bed. I kept picturing some poor soul swimming along and bumping into him, a big-eyed, half-eaten Irishman surrounded by carnivorous fish.

The deal with Spike is, he'd really go through with it. He'd revel in being fish bait in the afterlife. The problem with flat-out refusing Spike is he wouldn't refuse the same request from me. If I wanted to be fish bait in the great beyond, by God he'd find a way. Spike made a life of being unruled by convention while being devoutly steadfast to one simple principle - taking care of his friends.

Since Spike never had a lot of money and he pretty much blew what came his way, taking care didn't mean lavish gifts or extravagant gestures. Here was a man who put 150,000 miles on a Ford Pinto wagon and lived in houses with no plumbing or electricity. Spike's philanthropy was of the beer-on-the-front-porch variety, complete with the curse of its context.

He was the kind of friend that made you grit your teeth one moment and thank Heaven for him the next. After one too many beers, he'd grow mean and cantankerous and resentful of the world. The rest of the time, he was the guy who showed up to help on moving day, or to drive the truck during harvest when one of the crew got sick. Spike was the guy who'd dig neighbors out after blizzards, share his first tomatoes, split his only can of beans and give away his last cigarette. Spike was always the one to help friends bury the people they loved.

I married Spike in his mom's back yard on a summer day in 1982. The best man wore a buck knife on his belt. The guests segregated themselves into those drinking beer during the ceremony and those waiting until it was over. We canoed down the Niobrara River on our honeymoon and returned to a drafty, little house in Benkelman, Neb. to live as one.

Ten years later, Spike got custody of the dogs and I kept the RCA. We tried to stay together. We talked about endless arrangements that never took hold. The magical middle ground was just too far away for either of us to reach. He wanted a little farm house with a wood stove and trout pond not too far away. I wanted to see operas, land airplanes, climb mountains, dance in music videos and live in a condo on Venice Beach. Ten years it took us to admit these dreams would not coalesce. That's how bad we wanted not to be alone.

Alone was a shock when it finally came, but it had to come because it always does. I lived a moderately reckless life but kept myself in school and finally graduated with all the usual delusions about landing a great job and making tons of money. Spike spent a few years fixing signs for the county so he could live close to his mom while she grappled with Alzheimer's in a nursing home. When she finally gave in, he packed up his little red truck and moved back to his favorite fishing hole, where, God help me, I will one day weight him with lead teardrops and dry old pines and set him to sail.

Monday, December 21, 1998