Get High on Life

Published 12:00 am Wednesday, March 31, 1999

By Harold Keller / L’Observateur / March 31, 1999

Two weeks ago, a young man I grew up with died. We lived on the samestreet and went to the same school all of our 12 years. We often walked tochurch together. Carl Champagne was only 65 years old. He died of thedreaded disease – cancer.

When we finished high school, I joined the U.S. Navy; Carl went to LSU andlater served in the U.S. Army. Afterwards, he worked in Chicago for acouple of years, where he met and married his wife, Elaine, of 37 years.

They moved to Colorado and spent 34 years there where he retired and they raised their four children.

Over the last 40-plus years, I may have seen him five or six times, and that was when he would come to visit his family in Reserve. His mother isstill living and will be 101 years old.

Last October, the 27th to be exact, I ran into another classmate of mine – Juanita Camallo. I still call her by her maiden name, even though shemarried a former classmate of mine, Ronnie Jacob. She said, “Harold, didyou hear that Carl is very sick?” I didn’t know, and asked if she would call me later and give me his phone number. When she did, I saw that it was aLouisiana phone number. “Yes, Harold,” she said, “he and Elaine moved toPrarieville a little over a year ago.” I immediately called Carl and toldhim that I would drop by to see him. “Would like to see you, Harold,” washis reply.

Well, time passed and, again, I ran into another former classmate, Gayle Hahn Clement. She said, “Harold, Carl is at the end.” I then felt guilty fornot going to visit him. I called Elaine that same day and she told me, “Yes,it’s true. He’s been out of it for two days now – not eating and sleeping allthe time.” I asked her if I could visit. She said that I could, but warnedthat he might not even know I was there.

Jeanne and I went the very next day. When we arrived, Elaine took us to hisroom, shook him a little, and he opened his eyes. “Hi, Harold,” he said. Ithen asked the silly question that most of us would have asked, “How are you doing?” “I’m glad to still be here,” he said, smiling.

The first thing he shared with me was, “Harold, the other night, I woke up and could smell your mother’s coffee.” “Carl, that was 50 years ago!” Ireplied. He said, “I remember after you and I would go to church everymorning during Lent, I would sometimes stop in at your house and your mother would serve us coffee.” (It’s strange how little things mean a lot.)We talked about old times and, not wanting to overstay my visit, I made an attempt to leave. Elaine insisted that we have some coffee. Jeanne and Iprayed with Carl and Elaine. I kissed his forehead and said, “I love you.””Me, too,” he said.

We spent one-and-a-half hours in the kitchen talking with Elaine. “WasCarl a good husband?” I asked. “The best!” she answered. I know that shewasn’t exaggerating. “I presume he was a good father,” I said. “He wasgreat!” she said.

Before we left, I asked if it was OK to peek in to see if he was still awake. I walked to his bed and he opened his eyes. We were alone and Isaid, “Carl, life is short.” He agreed. I then asked a question that mostpeople have trouble with. “When you die, will you go to heaven?” “I hopeso,” he answered. I continued, “Carl, the only thing we have to do isbelieve that Jesus died for our sins and that He rose on the third day and sits at His Father’s right hand in heaven, ask God to forgive us of all of our sins, and ask Jesus to come into our hearts.” “I believe that,” he said.We prayed and I kissed my brother again and repeated that I love him. “Iknow that, Harold.”I’m glad I had a last chance to talk to my friend who had been a part of my life. I regret that it took 60 years for me to tell him that I loved him.Carl’s death reminded me of something I heard many years ago. Cancer candestroy the body, but not the soul.

Harold Keller is a regular columnist for L’Observateur

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