I had supper with my friend, Liz tonight. Monday night. Rob works late, so it’s often girls’ night out. Liz runs a nonprofit that takes care of people with developmental disabilities, and she loves those she calls “my people.” She has a wonderful sense of humor and finds such joy in these people others don’t want to see. Since I’m the same kind of bleeding heart, we get along.
Her last name is Huesemann, but after I ran into her at an event with a beer in her hand, I told her I was going to rename her Juiceman. It stuck, and as she dispenses pearls of wisdom, like “If they think my people are worthless, they’re wrong. I love my people.” and “I love it when my people sing, even when they don’t know the words.” Then there’s “She should just shut her mouth.” or, “Can I have your face jug? I really love it and it would look so good at my house.”
She knows one of my pet peeves is to have people I’m interviewing say, “Put that in your story,” or “Write about that.” So, she’ll say something outrageous, followed by, “Put that in your story,” or “Write that down.” It evolved into my proposing a new series of stories: “Juiceman says …” The pearls of wisdom get sillier every time we get together.
She met Mike once, last Thanksgiving when she came for dinner, and he had her doubled over laughing. He offered to take the face jug and put it in her car. He was sick and in pain, but he was still funny and she just loved him immediately.
“I’ll never eat Thanksgiving dinner again without thinking about him,” Juiceman says. “He was a doll.”
That he was. He touched everyone who met him.
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