"Bill, I love you so, I always will..." So sang the 5th Dimension and so say I today. You hit a certain point in life where the wedding invitations seem to dry up and deaths of loved ones start to pile up on your doorstep. My dear friend (and second cousin) Bill Wormington passed away this weekend in Honolulu, Hawaii and the world is a much lesser place. Bill was in his eighties, but was in the midst of heading on another 'round the world trip this fall--I had hoped to meet him and his wife Judy somewhere on their itinerary. I first met Bill in 1990 when, in the midst of one of those "government" jobs, I got plunked down in Manhattan, never having been and knowing not a soul. An aunt passed on Bill's number to me and the very day I called him I was soon at a wild party ala "Breakfast at Tiffany's" style in their tiny apartment meeting all sorts of crazy characters. That began an eighteen year friendship that contained at its roots a deep affection for everything New York City, unlimited desire for world travel, and a fondness for art--the art of drinking. Bill was generous with both time and spirit. His Manhattan apartment became my home when I would blow in from "adventures" in Pakistan and his Catskills retreat was my escape from the City. His cabin was filled with books, records from the 40s, booze and had a wood burning hot tub. I used to try to replicate his fire starting skills and would come back in the house sorely disappointed- with him just shaking his head--until the night I saw him soak the lot with a cup of kerosene. Every Fourth of July he would venture down to Chinatown and fill his car with illegal fireworks bound for the country--Judy and I would proceed to have exceedingly dangerous firecracker wars. Motorcycles, dogs, guns, skiing, scotch, hiking, fix-it--Bill was all man and yet was a complete soft touch. He retired first to the Catskills but just too quiet for him after all those years in the City. They completely switched gears and moved permanently to Kona, Hawaii where he spent his last years (one which included trekking around Mount Everest). In January of this year, as fate would have it, I spent two weeks in Kona, literally across the street from Bill and was able to enjoy his company every day. As my trip was winding down, Bill and I went to the Harbor House where Bill swore the beer was coldest on the planet--he would know! He said to me, "Brian, other people need stuff, you and I need to see the world." You're right, Bill, and now I will travel for you. I miss you and God damn, you left too soon!"It's not the critic that counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or when the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat."
Theodore Roosevelt
