A couple of weeks ago, two young people I know had their first encounter with death. They met it with pain and puzzlement. Someone they knew was no longer with them. I thought then that one thing that age does is it helps you deal with the death of someone you care about. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer puzzling; it simply the natural progression of life.

I was reminded of that last week when I learned that a friend had died. I was not puzzled; we had both exceeded the suggested three-score and 10. However, I was very sorry. As one of his friends posted on Facebook, the world had become a little less kind with the passing of Bill LaBorde. I agreed.

My association with Bill goes back to when we were both substantially younger. I needed a director and asked Dick Rex for a recommendation. He suggested Bill LaBorde. He said that he was a good director and easy to work with.

Bill brought his reel over; we watched it and chatted for a while, then I hired him for the project. And for a lot of projects after that. He was indeed a good director and easy to work with.

But our relationship went further than that, as I’m sure it did with many who met him through work and knew him as a friend. He was the sort of person you wanted to spend time with, one who had a lot of talent and not a shred of arrogance. He also had a sense of humor that sometimes made you wonder if your receiver was on some sort of delay.

Bill and I did a lot of jobs together over about thirty years. The one I remember most was a test of both his friendship and his commitment. I had been asked to produce the video for the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra’s 50^th Anniversary. Pro bono. I enlisted the aid of Bill and the production facilities of Dixieland, offering Bill and Dick the same princely sum I was being paid. Shooting and editing took about four days. Everybody on the project worked just as if they were being paid, and—as I recall—we finished the edit at about 4 a.m. of the morning I was to deliver the tape. The symphony people were very happy with it, and one of the board members treated Bill, Dick, and me to dinner.  After a really fancy dinner, we went to the concert which opened with the video.

When the video ended, the audience applauded, and Bill turned and stuck his hand out to me. We shook hands, celebrating the fact that we had done a good piece of work. Hadn’t made a dime, but that didn’t matter.

There was one quirky thing about our friendship. Bill always addressed me as Mr. Holmes, and I addressed him as Mr. LaBorde. Sometimes when we did this in public, people might look at us funny. It was such a quaint and antiquated form of speech. I don’t know why we did it, but this past week I was thinking about it. Maybe, even with the ironic twist to it, it goes back to a time of courtesy and respect. That would fit Mr. LaBorde; he embodied both of those virtues.

In recent years we saw each other infrequently, usually having lunch a couple of times a year. Since the pandemic fell upon us, we didn’t see each other at all. But, so far as I’m concerned, he was still a close friend, and I’m sad to lose him.