I had been sitting in the recliner working on my laptop when the wife said, "Read Jake Gibbs. He's hilarious. You'll die laughing."

 "If I must depart this life, I'd rather leave for the hereafter some other way," I answered flippantly. "Couldn't I just enjoy it?"

"Oh he's funny, Mom," our daughter, Wendy, piped in. "I never miss Jake's columns, Dad." And then I felt myself falling into a deep, ice cold, watery abyss as her next words instantly replaced me at the top of her totem pole. "He's my very favorite, my all time, number one, writer," she proudly stated.

WHERE DID WE GO WRONG?
This conversation took place more than six long years ago. At the time I sat there with a strange, blank look on my face, staring at our daughter, wondering where the wife and I may have erred in her upbringing. Hadn't we taught her to always side with family? If  "The Gibbsman" was her favorite writer, what was I? Pickled pig's feet?

Fast forward to 2008. The Gibbsman turned out to be one of the nicest, funniest guys you'd ever want to meet. He's not just an acquaintance, but a friend. Acquaintances may be many, but friends are few. You need a multitude of hands to count all the acquaintances you make in life.

Friends you can count on one hand; two if you're fortunate…and I've been fortunate.

 It's not easy when a friend moves as far away as the hinterlands, especially for seniors.

Because it usually takes years to nurture friendships, they're hard to establish.

Friends can kid each other, confide, yell, scream, laugh whatever and if they're true friends adversity rolls right off their backs like water off a duck. That's the real sign of friendship.

Last Monday I lost a friend. Well, okay. I really didn't lose him. I know where he went. And it's not as if we stopped being friends. We didn't. It's just that he and his wife moved. They left the Portage Lakes and headed northwest to Minnesota, the "Land of 10,000 Lakes." Ten thousand lakes and perpetually cold, bitter (minus 27 below zero), and snowy (37 feet of white stuff) winters. 

COLD WEATHER AHEAD
Besides calling him "The Gibbsman," over the years I've also dubbed him, "Gibbserino." He owns those two hounds, Tulip and Tilly, about which my dog is always writing. To their credit, Jake and his wife, Airika, are taking their hounds with them to where the sun rarely shines and a winter warm spell is when the temperature starts climbing from 27 below.

If that makes them happy, that's fine. They can have the deep snows and bitter cold. Give me the good old Portage Lakes and I'm a happy camper.

Their decision to move was based on economics. Airika just earned her doctor stripes and gained employment at a Minnesota hospital as an audiologist. I don't blame them. They're young, no children (unless you count Tulip and Tilly) and still have their whole life to live. If I was their age, I might seriously consider the same.

FLAIR FOR WRITING
Our paths first crossed more than seven years ago. I had been reading a sports article Jake had written as an intern. Most newcomers start out feeling their way, writing with simple declarative, elementary sentences. You've read them.

By the time you're halfway through you're ready to move on to another article, that is if you’re not fast asleep.

Not the Gibbsman. Jake had flair. He had style. He had a certain way of telling the story that was purely what has become known as the Gibbserino style. "Wow!" I said. "This guy's good. Forget about intern. Put him on as a stringer. Move him into a permanent position as soon as something opens. If you don't, some other newspaper will grab him and we will have lost." Fortunately, Tammy Proctor, saw in Jake exactly what I did. She made him sports editor.

HE’S THAT GOOD
While the good doctor is checking out the hearing of Minnesotans, Jake plans to submit his application to the casinos. Sorry, but I can't picture "The Gibbsman" dealing cards to high rollers eight hours a day. He has far too much talent for that. One of these days we’ll be reading a national publication and see the byline, "By Jake Gibbs." That's how good he is. Thanks for the excellent writing, Jake.

Now that he's gone, perhaps Wendy will reconsider who her favorite writer is.

Dear darlink dotter, your delirious dad (hint, hint), is still in the running.

Email Frank Weaver Jr. at frankweaverjr@aol.com.