A death spoils this Thanksgiving

I could never forget the birthday of one of my closest friends

Dick Claussen was born in Brooklyn on the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, thrusting America into world war and into a position of leading the free world.

His memorable birthday was Dec. 7.

He died on the 59th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, after a lingering illness he did not deserve. A death two days before Thanksgiving is particularly cruel.

We met in Brooklyn College’s night school, as members of the school newspaper, called ken. Yes, lower case, and a Scottish word meaning knowledge or scope. 

It was 1960 and I reported news, while Dick reported sports.

I worked my way up to news editor, then managing editor, while he became sports editor. 

I eventually became editor-in-chief and he eventually succeeded me.

By the time he married in 1980, I had been married and divorced. He married Ann later and wiser in life and they were on the doorstep of their 42nd anniversary. I was flattered, honored, and surprised when Dick asked me to be his best man.

It feels like I had always known Dick, but I left Brooklyn for Philadelphia in 1966.

It was only six years, but our friendship endured because we stayed in touch — by mail. No cell phones, no texting, no email.

I went into journalism, Dick moved into academic administration.

I visited him in Bloomington when he got a job at Indiana University, and then again in Manhattan, the Little Apple, when he worked at Kansas State University.

Our other interests were different. Dick started playing golf in college, which meant getting up early on Saturday morning to drive some distance to a golf course. My idea of Saturday morning was sleeping off my Friday night date.

Dick took up bridge and became a grand master.

I didn’t even like poker — too slow, and interfered with dating.

If you have a mental picture of a man from Brooklyn, it would not be Dick.

He didn’t sound like a “dem” and “dose” Brooklynite, and he was so open and sweet he seemed to have been fashioned in the Midwest.

He didn’t like rough language and corny jokes made him laugh.

I smoked and drank and cursed. He didn’t.

And yet, the things we did not have in common did not matter.

When I mentioned to him that I had lost my college press card, he sent me his. I treasured it.

He eventually returned to Pennsylvania and settled in Bethlehem. 

He had retired, I had not and had a busy schedule, so when we got together, it was in Philadelphia.

By then Katie, his extraordinary daughter, had been born. I guess she was a natural scholar and Dick bragged about her accomplishments in getting through law school, clerking, speaking several languages and working overseas. 

When I saw Katie’s name come up on my cell phone Wednesday morning, I knew it was bad news.

I knew it was bad news because Dick wasn’t well enough to attend my 80th birthday party last year.

Katie told me her dad was failing, but wanted to rent a limo to get to the party, even for a bit.

As I recall, Katie asked me to talk him out of it, and I did.

I told Dick there would be plenty of time for us to get together.

I was wrong.