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Being alone

I've known my best buddy 35 years. He was 10 years old, and I was 15. When my high school band would play a concert for the grade school kids, I'd snatch buddy Eric from class to help set up my drums. We've been tight every since.

We've never been ticked at each other, no fights. Oddly enough, we even look similar. So similar, that if we go to Burlington to gander at chicks, we make sure to not wear similar clothes; if we did, we'd look like absolute nimrods.

We're both self-employed, which gives one total flexibility over one's schedules. (Since the Royal wedding I've been on a kick of using, "one" instead of "someone" or "somebody.")

So, I'm utilizing my flex schedule next week and visiting my sister Holly in Albuquerque, N.M.

A couple of days, Holly and I will spend in Santa Fe looking at art and blue sky. It'll be fun. Always good to see my sister, who works as a campus director at a college. Like me and my pal Eric, Holly is single. Holly and I are very close, too. If we have the rare argument, it's not anything lasting more then a few minutes.

Eric, a woodsman, just took a two-day jaunt to Maine to rummage around the woods looking for moose sheds.

Eric doesn't plan his scouting trips; he decides to do them and then-boom, bang-he's off. He lands way up the end of a road he's hunted for years, 70 miles from the nearest Hannaford supermarket, and 30 miles from the nearest Ma n' Pa store that he says, is more like a real Ma and Pa's house- where one can buy cigs and boiled eggs-than a general store.

Eric brings hamburgs, hot dogs, a small cook stove, soda, and a tiny heater, and camps in back of his early 2000s model Dodge Durango truck.

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