I called him “Bobby Glenn” when I was miffed at him. But that was rare, and even when we had our differences, I never resorted to calling him Robert, because I never thought of him as a Robert. In public he was Bob or Bobby, but at home I usually referred to him as “My Silly Rabbit.”
Bob and I dated for nearly four years, from August, 2004, to April, 2008. Forever young, his youthful enthusiasm made me stay young, too. We made our first trip to Hawaii together, attended a mitful of Mariner’s games, and frequently drove the beach in his pickup while running his dog Jake.
But the woods were truly his cathedral. We often spent our weekends driving the hills to get a glimpse of deer, elk, or trilliums, depending on the season. When a timber squirrel or chipmunk crossed our path, he playfully referred to it as a “mini-cougar.”
One clear day he took me to the highest hill in the Willapas. From there you could see the Columbia River to the south, the Pacific Ocean to the west, the Olympic Mountains to the north, and Mt. Rainier to the northeast.
“Promise me you’ll bring my ashes here and release them to the wind,” I told him, as we stood quietly in awe, taking in the view.
He turned to me in shock, then grinned. “Okay, I promise—as long as I can still remember how to get here by then.”
I laughed. He’d made a great joke. Bobby knew the woods in all of southwest Washington like the back of his hand. You couldn’t get him lost in those hills on a bet. I’ve never known anyone who was more at home in the wilderness.
Today would have been Bob’s 52nd birthday. Would have been—what horrible, horrible words. Sadly, his vibrant spirit has left the mortal plain, but I’m grateful for the thousands of wonderful memories I’ll always cherish.
I miss you, Silly Rabbit. Rest in Peace.