I have a picture in my mind of him and me together as suntanned skinny kids at Lake Wohlford. Wish I had that shot for real.
There were other kids to hang out with, play softball, go to the beach; the neighborhood kids. Johnny didn’t live in the neighborhood; he lived a mile away. We had one class together in elementary school and that was it, but we never lost contact. When it was time for a real conversation, that had to be with Johnny. And so many of those conversations happened late at night (or early in the morning). I would sneak out of the house after bedtime. Arriving below Johnny’s second floor bedroom window, expected or unexpected, tossing pebbles up at it until I got his attention. He would slip out to join me and we’d spend hours walking and talking.
Skimming on the beach. We each made a skim board out of plywood and would go skimming together. Johnny didn’t stop there; he set up a skim board building facility in a vacant garage at the complex he lived in and built all sizes and shapes. When he graduated from skimming to surfing, of course he ended up building his own boards too.
Fellow acoustic guitar player, folksong singer, and continuing the trend, guitar builder when he got older.
We joined the Army together, on the buddy plan, to become paratroopers. (Those long late-night soul-searching conversations led to that?) The Army plan didn’t mean we’d be together through duty assignments though, it was only good through Basic Training.
Slumgullion country rock band. By then he was John B; John Bowman. (He told me one time he got tired of spelling Seethaler every time someone needed to know his name, or explaining how to pronounce it for those who saw it written (“Say Taller”), but I suspect there was more to it than that. As we were becoming young adults, there were revelations about his heritage that resonated.) Slumgullion was already established in Park City. When they decided to relocate to Boulder, they didn’t have a place to stay, so the entire band moved into our basement in Northglenn for a few months.
Sailplane pilot, then of course, instructor.
The Red Baron. I’ve joked for years that it sucks to be Johnny. My best friend grew up to be the Red Baron flying a Stearman biplane all over the country; I’ve got something to brag about. His best friend grew up to be an accountant.
A long stint as the Red Baron. After that, freelance flight instructor, harmonica player, guitar mechanic, and still, my favorite philosopher.
My brother; John B. Died today.
