"As Close to Heaven as it gets..."

Once again it’s that time of the year. Growing up in southern Louisiana, I never experienced a real Fall. Here in Chicago, the temperatures are getting cooler and the evening sky is beginning to get that look. I know the leaves change color here in the Midwest, but nothing can compare to Fall in New England.

I was very fortunate to have a certain gentleman in my life for 10 years. He grew up on a dairy farm in St. Johnsbury, Vermont which is located in the state’s “Northeast Kingdom.” If it’s anything Maple, it can be found in St. J.

During my first visit to the farm, I learned very quickly that taking pictures of trees quickly labeled you as a “flatlander or leaf peeper.” Of course, this hick from Louisiana never saw trees turn color. Let’s face it, come Fall in Louisiana, leaves or either green or dead. Though born and raised in Vermont, my friend still had an appreciation for the sight and spread of beautiful color Fall would bring to his home state.

My friend’s father was a kind man. Wendall was not one for many words but he certainly made me feel welcome during my many visits, as welcome as a son. You could always bet that the grill was prepared and vegetables from his garden a part of the evening meal. Milk was the beverage of choice and not any of that skim or low-fat stuff. When the dairy farm was in full swing, fresh milk was always in the refrigerator. I also amassed a good appetite for Wendall’s “pop-overs.” The best dinner roll does not even compare.

It’s at this time of the year I miss Vermont with it's white – steepled churches and beautifully carpeted landscape of reds, oranges, yellows and greens. I miss warm apple cider donuts from Cold Hollow Mill, my favorite trees in Woodstock and Norwich and the calves nipping at my fingers in the calf barn. I miss old covered bridges over creek-rivers (didn’t think I’d forget that one) and country roads lined with all that amazing color.

Shortly after my father passed away from lung cancer in September 2004 (I cared for him in the months prior to his passing) I decided to go back to the place I knew would bring me some peace. I flew to Vermont and decided to take a driving trip to all the places I recalled.

One of those days was spent with Wendall up in St. Johnsbury. He prepared lunch (he was anxious for me try his French Onion soup) and dinner, everything as delicious as I remembered. We spent most of the day talking and suddenly I realized the man of few words had a lot to say.

When it was time to leave, he asked if I could spend the night, but I had a long drive back to Burlington and an early flight in the morning. As he walked me to my car, I could see from the drive way, in his garage, a small, green John Deere child’s tractor. It belonged to his only son, who was my friend. “You still have it.” I remarked. “Yup” was his only reply. As I hugged him goodbye, I whispered: “I miss him.” His expression said what words could not. That would be last time I would see Wendall. He passed away two weeks after my visit, almost a month after I lost my Dad.

Last week, author Mitch Albom ("Tuesdays with Morrie") wrote an article for the Parade supplement found in most Sunday newspapers. The piece focuses on the premise that if you could have one day with someone that is no longer in your life, what would you do? For me, it would be to see my friend again and figure out why something so right ended up going so wrong? I want him to see who I am now, how I've grown, that I am so much more than the shell of someone he knew a few years ago. I want him to know I'm happy again. How proud that I was able to turn it all around.

When you spend a long period of time with someone, there are moments, memories shared that only the two of you will ever know and understand. No one else can have that. Over time, you even know each other's thoughts, the good and the bad. It's time to stop being afraid, to take a chance and have faith that reaching out is not a bad thing. There is no fate worse than one filled with regret.

During my first visit to Vermont, I remember standing on "Carpenter's Hill" viewing the landscape, and describing it to my friend as close to heaven as it gets. From every sight, smell and sound, down to the taste of a warm apple cider, there are the things I’ll never forget. Most importantly, maybe one day the two of us will meet on an intersecting, "sleepy, country road" that will finally bring understanding and an end to this awful silence.