We are Bill & Sandie Blackley, Molly's parents and Ben's mother-in-law & father-in law. From the moment we met Mary and Bruce we fit like favorite shoes. Bruce and Mary opened their home to us like a brother and sister. Each visit we would hug and then say, "Man.... aren't we the luckiest dads & moms in the world. "

Bill remembers free moments during our visits in Seattle when he and Bruce would knock around in the basement, joking and laughing about most anything. Bruce's funny smile or chuckle would set Bill off on a spell of laughing almost to tears. Our favorite past time, though, was talking about our kids and grandkids and how much we loved them and wanted the best for them. Upon urging, Bruce would get out his trumpet and play. He could play the most difficult tunes and then make them more fun by clowning around with different sounds. He told Bill the story about his Dad giving him the trumpet and how proud both of them were with his playing. He explained the different mouthpieces and how he got to his favorite choice ( # 5) because it offered the best depth for his embrasure. He taught Bill a horn tremolo that Bill practices on his harmonica. He said one of the absolute best times of his life was playing the Voluntary at Ben and Molly's wedding.

We cherish every moment we had with Bruce and will honor his memory. We'll be brother and sister with Mary for the rest of our lives.

We can't be at the celebration of Bruce's life next weekend, but we'd like to contribute to this celebration a poem that Bill wrote a few years ago. This poem reminded us of Bruce's persistent sense of humor and his continuing presence in our lives.

Soul Food (by Bill Blackley)

On a fine June afternoon when
the average Joe stumbles
on loose roof shingles, cart-wheels
past cherry blossoms and ricochets
off the second story window, what
do you think he plans to say
to God, should one be there,
on his jarring arrival? As for me,
I've asked my children to stash
my ashes aboard a train south-bound
for the Okeechobee where they can shake
my carbon into swamp water. Or, they can chuck
my dust off a steam engine whistling
a West Virginia gorge, where
it'll mingle with evening mist in pocket
meadows. Mornings it'll linger
among crickets sawing fiddles. Evenings,
thunder will tremble my soul
off mountain laurel and powder puff
it to black earth where
after a gully washer it'll dance
stream riffles until gill-filtered by a brown trout
fan-tailing beneath rhododendron. There it'll
join scale and fin until a caddis fly snags my host
from the river and a pan becomes a sort of heaven
where in a pecan crumble batter I'll sizzle.
************************************
Sandie & Bill Blackley