November fifth is my buddy, Boyd’s birthday, a 'Guy Faulke’s Day' baby, who always loved the Beatles' lyric, and British phrase, "remember the fifth of November.” We have not seen each other in several years, but ten years ago, he came to my rescue on his birthday as my mother was dying. He was with me the day I turned 21. He was in my wedding nearly 34 years ago. It seems to me as if we have always been friends.
He was born the middle child of three boys; Boyd being his mother’s maiden name; and was the eternal cut-up, grabbing attention. Annie Boyd, his Mother, was a legend in our small town for her humor, and I believe he was her favored son. He was her only son by her side as she died. I met him in high school, that slippery time of teen terror, where he was always a star. Tall, lanky and blonde, he was a natural athlete, and incited riots at the basketball games for his unusual free-throw style. He was notorious as a funnyman with a wit that could slice a person in half. In an almost-alarming algebra II class, he and another class clown tortured the poor ancient teacher, Mrs. Tyler, and developed her nickname, “Tippecanoe and Algebra too!” That fabled class is still discussed and laughed about. Every person at our 40th high school reunion wanted to see Boyd aka Jet, and clamored for his attention. We grew to know each other around an ever-socially evolving lunchroom table, and later, were roommates for a while in college. Those early seventies were lively days, and there are insane times to be told; like our road trips to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, or the annual “Turkey Bowl” football game, but this blog does not have enough space for all the crazy things he and I did together, or with our larger group of friends. Most of the the legion of stories simply are neither printable nor safe for work. Sometimes, I wonder how we all survived. The main characters reading this narrative will know and remember. No need to tell the tales again. Somewhere along the college years, Boyd became “BC, the Jet,” which shortened to “The Jet.” The name stuck and today forty or so years later, his friends still call him Jet.
Jet married the love of his life, lovely Catherine, who was, and is his perfect comic straight-man whose comic timing is as sharp as a razor edge. I think she was the first woman he loved who just completely and totally “got him,” and they just recently celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary. She is the holder of his balloon string, and has always allowed him to be himself, the funny dear man we all love and cherish. Together, Jet and his wife, whom we call “Catbird”, have forged a wonderful life together with children and grandkids, with a trail of friends that would stretch for miles. He and I have celebrated birthdays together and apart, but I never, ever, forget the fifth of November, and am forever grateful for every memory of our time together.
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