Yesterday, something happened to me for the first time ever. No, no, I have two daughters, biologically, so, if that had happened, it would have been the third time. What actually happened is that I googled someone with whom I have lost touch over the years, an old college friend, and the first return was his obituary.
Bubba Moon, we called him, Moon being from Monson and Bubba on account of him being a big guy, red neck in his politics. We played foosball, in the basement of the dormitory and in bars, and he was both terrible and determined to get better. He was also thrifty, and when it was his turn to put in quarters you could sometimes see the struggle between the desire to keep playing and the desire to keep his coins in his pocket rather than spend them in the service of prolonging his losing streak. I remember once, when he had just plugged in his quarters and the new balls were rolling into the slot, one of the other fellows, Keith Simanski I think, remarking, "Bubba, you are so tight with those quarters I keep expecting to hear the eagles squeal."
He made an exception to his usual procedures when the Hormel meatpackers were on strike in 1985. He'd go to the grocery store and buy cases of Hormel chili, then deliver them to the food shelf, where he'd accept their thanks without divulging that the real motive was his hatred of labor unions. The family business, as the obit makes clear, was trucking, and unions were regarded as the mortal enemy. I see that on the tribute board some former employees write about what a square deal they got from the Monsons and how they always liked the family. I suspect that's not just funeral-time fluff. One thing I always liked about Bubba Moon was that, unless you knew, you'd never know he was well off. In the early '80s we were both beginning golfers, always looking for a deal on greens fees, even though I kind of vaguely thought that he probably could have joined a country club. He wasn't much better at golf than foosball. Once in a while, he'd beat me, and when that happened he never quite succeeded at disguising his pleasure. He'd buy beer afterwards in the clubhouse, a sure sign of euphoria. I remember trying to explain that beating me 101 to 103 did not necessarily justify a celebration, and he'd deny that there was a celebration, but generally the nineteenth hole played faster.
I see that the trucking company closed its doors in 2009. I think I remember that they hauled newsprint, and I bet the rise of the Internet and decline of newspapers killed them. I was dimly aware that the company had shut down, and casual curiosity about what Bubba might be up to now is what caused me to type his name into the Google box. Didn't care at all for the jolt that followed upon that.
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