From cjford@altamaha.net Wed May 19 19:04:33 1999 Date: Wed, 19 May 1999 21:58:58 -0600 From: Charlie Ford To: keen@digital-galaxy.net Subject: Come on Morning [ The following text is in the "iso-8859-1" character set. ] [ Your display is set for the "US-ASCII" character set. ] [ Some characters may be displayed incorrectly. ] How does one even start a writing about the death of one¹s best friend? How does one sit and through mere words explain the reason you somehow loved that person so much simply because they somehow loved you so much? I cannot fathom how to begin to undertake this task, so I will simply write about him and his nature. I will leave the gleaning scripting to those much more articulate than I. I met Mitch Freitag in Charlotte N.C. in 1980. I had just moved into an apartment on the east side of Charlotte after only being in the city for a few weeks. Mitch lived in the apartment across the sidewalk and shared his place with three other fellows, all attending UNCC (University of North Carolina at Charlotte). Mitch was older than the rest of the guys in the apartment, but still acted like any college student you might ever meet. He was an engineering major and had a mind that clicked with a great amount of structure. He even partied with structure. Other times he would drift away with conversation that would rival Socrates, or Plato. All thoughts conveyed in the lay terms of modern day man. He wondered about the matters of spirituality and claimed himself an agnostic in the early years. He would say ³Man, I jut don¹t know about God or whether I believe in him or not.² Me, I was about as free and easy as I have always been when it comes to life and it¹s responsibilities. Mitch always said that's what he liked about me, the fact that I could roll with the punches through tough times and come out on the other side of the ring looking OK. A little beat up, but still standing. I was a believer in God and he and I shared many long conversations with me giving dissertation on why I ^Ìsaw the light¹, and he challenging and questioning in his search for that same light. I am not sure we ever reached agreement on any one matter, but I know I enjoyed his challenges, as I am sure he enjoyed my spiritual perspective. I think respect for one another is what we always shared. We never once argued. Mitch was a pilot and had been flying since he was about the age of nine as I remember. His Dad, a pilot before him taught him the rules of flying and Mitch thoroughly enjoyed his time in the air. He followed all the rules to a tee, and never once was not serious about maneuvering his plane in a safe manner. He won trophies at Osh Kosh Wisconsin in 1975 I believe. He won grand Champion Antique for a J cub he and his Dad restored. Mitch flew it all the way to Wisconsin from Charleston, South Carolina without the help of a radio, using only his map, landmarks, and a compass. Talk about bold faced faith! He was also a guitarist. He loved James Taylor, Dan Fogelberg, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, and others that seem to ooze great lyrics that drive men to think about the more heartfelt matters of living. He could play like a virtuoso rocking gently to the rhythm of whatever tune he played. He taught me my first three chords and how to finger pick a little. I am still not great at it, but I still try. The next time I saw him I was going to impress him with some licks of my own. He would have been proud I think. When he picked up his Martin flat top and started to strum you knew that he had used this as an outlet for years. He told me once he started trying to play when he was about 10. He slacked off in his adult years, but each time I spoke with him he always said, ³Yeah, I need to play more.² Mitch and I only spoke every now and then. Each time, we basically picked up where the conversation had left off before. He knew my voice and I knew his when either of us picked up the telephone. I always would start off with a deep guttural ³Hey Bubba² and he always followed by laughing his high pitched snicker and proceeded to ask ³Where the hell are you at now? Have you ever had a friend like that, one who knew you so well they could predict your mood just by the sound of your voice. I would fill him in on all the news I had, and he would in turn tell me about how his wife Mary Beth and his son Joseph were doing. Mary Beth people filled a void in Mitch¹s life soon after he and I met. He always said the first time he saw her he knew he was going to marry her. Unlike others I have heard say that, I actually believed Mitch. He was not the type to say something so strong and not mean it. After leaving Charlotte, Mitch and I seldom got to see each other. He would sometimes call and try to find me, and I would always call and catch him at home. He was stable and I wasn¹t. This time that wonderlust threw me a curve I am having to deal with. He considered me his ³redneck friend², and I was honored to be called that by him. I considered him my best friend of all time. I loved him so much and he knew it. I would have taken a bullet for him if the need had been there. I have said before that I have always considered true friends very few and far between. There are those that we thin we know but only open up to so much, as much as comfort says we should. Mitch was always open to anything I had to say. he would listen intently and give me his thoughts no matter how trivial or off-the-wall the subject was. I found out this evening that on April 12, 1999 Mitch and his son Joseph were killed in a plane crash near Hardeville, SC. The Coroner said they died instantly without pain. Mitch radioed in to the tower that he was experiencing strong high altitude turbulence and that he was requesting permission to drop to a lower flight path. That was the last thing that was heard from his Piper Clipper. Joseph was they say most likely asleep in the back seat of the small plane. Mary Beth, Mitch¹s wife and shining light for the past many years said they called her that morning to let her know they were on their way home. I am sure the last words he said to her were ³I love you². I know this because I know he did, he told me so. Mitch¹s guitar sits silent now, and our conversation has come to an end. I cried today when I heard the news. He was my best friend and someone that one only meets once in a lifetime. That person that you use as a mentor simply because they want to be that for you, and you want to be that for them. Several years ago I gave Mitch and album by Dan Fogelberg. There was a song on that album called Come on Morning. The album over the years became Mitch¹s favorite and his wife¹s favorite. I believe he told me last time I saw him a couple years ago that Joseph had even adopted it and knew several of the tunes by heart. They played ³Come on Morning² at his funeral and since in my aloofness I could not be there, I was honored to hear that. It¹s funny how things work out between friends who love music. He loved rock-n-roll but also enjoyed mellow equally. Mitch I will miss you more than you know. I will miss your laugh, and your seriousness of thought, and your in-depth perspective on anything at all that this idiot might bring up. God greets you now, and I am sure he has a Martin guitar you can use and most likely have. Play him the tune about your redneck friend and maybe he will shine on us to meet again one of these fine days. Make sure you ask him some of the questions you asked me that I could not answer adequately enough. Take care my brother. I hope heaven has a par-three golf course. You and Joseph mark a place for me on the scorecard. I will see ya¹ll one of these days. Till then I will speak of you often and never forget my best friend, nor what he gave to me. God grant him entrance I pray, for he is a good and kind man with a heart as big as life itself. He loves to laugh and he loves to hear it just as equally. He learned of you over time, and then he dwelled in your peacefulness. Shine on him and let him know that ³There is going to be a day, there is really no way to say no to the morning. Yes it¹s going to be a day, and there is really nothing left to say, but come on morning.² Your brother, Charlie Ford (912) 375-3651 cjford@altamaha.net http://www.digital-galaxy.net/~keen/charlie/charlie.html "Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and furry, meaning nothing" Shakespeare