Bidding farewell to a heck of a good guy

I am terrible at remembering birthdays.

Oh sure, I know my own. And I know my wife's and kids'. And I know the birthdays of my immediate family — my mom, dad and sister. But that's about it. I could probably make a pretty good guess for my niece and nephews, but when it comes to anybody else — grandparents, in-laws, friends — I'm pretty much clueless. I think there's a November in there somewhere, but that's honestly just a stab in the dark.

However, there is one other person's birthday which I've always managed to remember. It's the birthday of a man named Carl Balvanz. His birthday was June 23. For some reason, I've always managed to remember that one. Perhaps it's because Carl's birthday was exactly one month before my own. Or maybe it's because Carl was just a heck of a good guy.

Carl Balvanz was a close friend of my family. He passed away last week following a 2-year battle with cancer. He was 80 years old. Having moved from my home state of Iowa several years back, it had been years since I had seen or spoken to Carl or his wife Dorothy. But his passing has launched a good bit of nostalgia for me.

I can't say I was close to Carl. He was more my parents' friend than mine. But when I think of my childhood, and the assorted people who came in and out of it, Carl was one of those people who was always there. There are but a handful of people whose names appear in both my baby album and my wedding album, and Carl and Dorothy's names are among them.

When my wife and I got married nearly 11 years ago, I knew that there wouldn't be a whole lot of family friends from Iowa who would make the seven-hour trek to Blytheville to attend the wedding. But Carl and Dorothy did. They were the only groom's guests who were not blood relatives or college buddies. That always meant a lot to me, and it shows the kind of people Carl and Dorothy have always been.

I have a wide range of memories of gatherings between my parents and their friends. I remember camping trips, nights playing cards and pool parties. Carl and Dorothy were part of so many of those.

For a long time, Carl and Dorothy had a pool in their backyard. Some of my earliest memories of swimming are from that pool. I remember kicking around the pool in a big black inner-tube. When Carl would come toward the pool, my sister and I always knew he would jump in and make a giant splash, so we would kick as fast as we could to get to the other side of the pool.

But it was at another friends' backyard pool a few years later when Carl taught me how to swim. Or at least how to doggie-paddle. He bribed me with a gumdrop if I paddled a few feet to him. Then he backed further away, upping the ante to two gumdrops. This continued until he coaxed me into paddling across the entire shallow end, for a grand total of 10 gumdrops. Oddly enough, he never got around to paying up. I guess I'll have to forgive him.

When people would describe Carl, they would inevitably refer to him as a "good guy." Indeed, he was. Most of my memories came through the eyes of a child, but I always knew him as someone who was kind, gentle and warm-hearted. He was always nice to me, and he was someone I knew I could trust.

It was no secret that Carl's health was failing. I knew for months that his cancer was winning the battle, and thanks to some phone calls from my parents, I knew early last week that the end was near. So when my mom called to tell me Carl had passed, it wasn't a surprise.

Yet I was struck by the grief I felt in my own heart as the reality of his passing set in. Even though life takes you in different directions, and you leave childhood behind, you always kind of expect the fabric of your youth to always be there. I've seen elements of my childhood fade before, but it's mainly been trivial things — old hangouts being torn down, or favorite teachers retiring.

But rarely has it been a true human loss. And that's what losing Carl has been. It's not just a piece of my childhood that's gone; it's a face, a soul. And what's more, I know that there will be more to come. After all, time keeps marching forward, and nothing lasts forever. And so, I grieve. I grieve for Carl today, as I will for others in the future.

And yet, at the same time, there is happiness. There is comfort in knowing that I was lucky enough to have had my life’s path cross paths with Carl Balvanz’s. And I know that every time June 23 rolls around, I will think of him. I will remember his kind ways and fun-loving nature. And as long as I do that, and as long as all who knew him and loved him do the same, his memory will live on.