Farewell My Friend

"LoriAnn, I have some very sad news to share." Deep down, you're already aware that what follows will not be easy to hear.

The news was indeed very sad. It was undeniably sorrowful. My dear friend Terri, who is also the wife of my beloved friend and former colleague, Byron, had the painful task of informing me that Byron had unexpectedly passed away. The news hit me with the force of a cruel blow, and a chilling numbness swept over my entire body. I found myself screaming in disbelief as if my denial could somehow rewrite the reality before me. Byron's passing has left me utterly devastated and heartbroken. He was only 47, departing painfully too soon and leaving an already irrefutable void. 

Byron was my former HR leader from my time at McGladrey. He was a mentor, guide, friend, and a truly exceptional human being. Working under his leadership was a privilege and so much fun. He possessed the remarkable ability to recognize talent and skills within me that I hadn't yet discovered. He boldly pushed me into the necessary scary and uncomfortable places, with the intention of shaping me into the HR and talent acquisition leader I am today. He was one of the first leaders to give me wingspan and the freedom to explore and excel, while also offering a safety net should I stumble. Through his own example, he taught me the noble act of falling on the sword for my team, and he also knew when to rein me in if I got out in front of myself. He affectionately nicknamed me "Fireball," - emblematic of my unyielding determination. Every so often I'd hear him utter, "Hold on there, Fireball. Let's take a step back and walk through this slowly." He’d then guide me with compassion and grace.

Byron's sense of fairness was unwavering, and his ethical standards set the benchmark for HR excellence. A significant portion of my leadership persona was molded under his tutelage.

What truly elevated our connection was that he and his family became a loving extension of my own. He assumed the roles of big brother and mentor to my son. Our interactions transcended the professional realm, as we shared life's experiences, fun-filled family get-togethers with abundant laughter, and ceaselessly uplifted one another. He and his family loved, I mean LOVED, my chocolate chip banana bread. And I was all too willing to bake countless batches of it for them.

In light of all this, Byron faced a myriad of struggles and inner demons, engaging in a frequent and intimate dance with them. Our conversations often delved into the battles he fought. I mention this as a testament to the intricate tapestry of human experiences and the multi-dimensional nature of him and our friendship. In a heartfelt conversation with a friend, I tearfully expressed my profound anger over how his demons ultimately prevailed, silencing him forever. This tribute serves as a voice for him, and to break the tragic silence that has befallen him and those who held him dear. 

Our last exchange occurred a few weeks prior to his passing after a call he had with my son, and his final message resonates deeply within me:

"Hey - not that you need my reassurance, but your son is amazing. You've done an incredible job, Mom. We had a meaningful talk about the writer's strike. He's an inspiration to me, and you built him from the ground up. Thank you for bringing him into our lives and sharing him with us. He is truly a gift. Love you." ♥️

My response echoed gratitude for the sentiment and concluded with "Love you. XOXO." ♥️

I've revisited the entire history of our text exchanges countless times, cycling through moments of laughter and tears. The solace lies in the fact that our last words to each other were ones of inspiration and affection, and concluded with a heart emoji. Just like so many times before, they were infused with love and the essence of a beautiful and tender friendship.

My heart is a mixture of love and heartache. The memories I've shared with Byron are treasures I will forever hold close. My thoughts are with Terri, and his children, as they grapple with the absence of their beloved father and husband.

I'm left with a profound sense of loss and devastation and completely shattered. Coming to terms with Byron's passing and the realization that our exchanges—conversations, emails, texts, and get-togethers—have reached an irrevocable conclusion is a process I will forever be navigating. I'm striving to comprehend the depths of this loss as well as extend comfort to my son.

The weight of it all is overwhelming, a poignant reminder of the imperative to be wholly present, to embrace life in its entirety, to release trivial matters, to quickly forgive, to hug longer and tighter, and to love deeply the individuals who grace our lives. It's a call to transcend our self-imposed barriers, quiet the ceaseless chatter of our minds, and relentlessly embrace the beauty of each day we are granted on this amazing journey we call life.

Here's to you, my dear friend. Thank you for the beautiful and invaluable lessons you've taught me. For the camaraderie, affection, and laughter you so generously offered. Thank you for the countless engaging, candid, and vulnerable heartfelt conversations as we sought answers to our shared burdens. You were my brother, my friend, my confidant. Your name is etched upon my heart, and you will forever occupy a special place in my life. Both Stephen and I are committed to standing by Terri and the children, supporting them as they grieve your absence and move forward in a world without you. In due course, we will share stories of our time with you, ensuring your memory lives on.

For now, my friend, the time has come for you to finally and fully embrace peace and gracefully dance among the angels.

Love and miss you!

Goal Setting at Strawberry Field

The summer following my tenth birthday, my parents granted me permission to take on a summer job, allowing me to earn some pocket money, and, in hindsight, a deep respect for day labor. I embarked on this journey by working at the mecca of produce in our tiny town of Swansea, MA – Chace Farm. I lived about half a mile from the farm and always admired the meticulous rows of plants and quaint fruit and veggie stand when we’d drive or walk by our local agricultural gem. Of all its yummy offerings, Chace Farm was known for its delicious, mouth-watering strawberries. It was not uncommon to find a pint or two of their succulent strawberries adorning the kitchens and tables of our fellow residents within our neighborhood.

On the morning of my inaugural day pursuing what I believed to be a venture into "serious money-making," I was vibrating with giddy enthusiasm. After all, I was now an up-and-coming professional woman earning my own money, and even though my journey began quite literally at dirt level, the sky was the limit. This day was also poised to mark a pivotal lesson in goal setting that would resonate throughout my lifetime.

With a fervent determination and a hearty combination of Cheerios and Tang fueling me (yes, Tang - after all, it was the 70s and if it was good enough for astronauts, it was good enough for me), I eagerly set forth to become the money-making prodigy that would undoubtedly become a source of parental pride, especially in conversations with their friends. I could envision the scenario: parents competing to outdo each other with their children's remarkable achievements. Meanwhile, my parents radiated joy as they happily shared that their daughter was occupied that day, giving an interview to Rolling Stone magazine in recognition of her achievement as the adolescent entrepreneur of the year. Brimming with the confidence of a person adamant about capitalizing on their earning potential, I hurriedly skipped to Chace Farm, each step becoming a leap towards my financial ambitions.

During my gleeful and determined sojourn to the farm, I resolved that the day's strawberry picking would yield a grand total of $100 for me. Now, in hindsight, I realize my tender age of ten shielded me from the intricate economic realities of agriculture. Nonetheless, I clung to an unwavering determination to become the epitome of financial success that summer. My soul was ablaze with aspirations, and I believed myself en route to achieving a financial status akin to Rockefeller's.

I entertained myself with fanciful thoughts of the exciting spoils my $100 would afford me. My list included: a tape recorder, a pink Huffy bike with accompanying tassels, the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine, a new flavor of Bonnie Bell lip gloss – strawberry, of course, to punctuate the experience – and a coveted pair of Trax sneakers. All of these treasures would be procured from our town's grand emporium of retail delights, Kmart.

I excitedly arrived at the farm and reported in with the farmer. She carefully instructed me on my duties and informed me that she’d pay me 25 cents for every five-quart basket of strawberries I picked. The strawberries had to be plump, fully ripe, and free of bruising. Unfazed by her directives and blissfully unaware of the size of a five-quart basket, I readily accepted her terms with eagerness. Without hesitation, the farmer handed over several five-quart baskets, and a realization dawned upon me – this was going to be much more challenging than I had initially anticipated and perhaps an extra glass of Tang would have been a wise choice. The farmer then proceeded to inform me that the baskets also had to have a cap. Still unaffected by the task, I took the baskets and set off to a row of strawberries ready to accumulate my fortune.

After several hours hunched over strawberry plants under the scorching July sun, my Cheerios and Tang had waged an internal battle, leaving me feeling lightheaded and a bit queasy. Covered in dirt and drenched in perspiration mixed with the sticky residue of strawberry juice, I conceded to the overwhelming fatigue and sunburn that was now smarting. It was evident that it was time to present my hard-earned harvest to the farmer and claim my day's earnings.

Throughout the morning, the farmer carefully took note of how many baskets I surrendered. As I laid my final strawberry bounty before her, covered in berry-strewn clothing and hair, I stood readily awaiting my earnings. The farmer tallied a total of 17 baskets of strawberries. She then carefully placed in my weary, strawberry-stained hands a mere 4.25 cents for hours of arduous fruit-filled labor. As I stared at the paltry sum, I couldn't help but imagine myself as a modern-day Oliver Twist, standing before the stern headmaster, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and yearning, as I gathered the resolve to utter those iconic words, "Please sir, I want some more." And more was what I desired. But for the time being, a well-earned shower and a hearty lunch awaited, where Kool-Aid would play substitute to the mornings elixir of Tang.

As my berry money-making escapade came to an end that day, a vital lesson had come squarely into view: the art of crafting attainable goals. Too often we get so caught up in the excitement of the reward that we lose sight of the very road map leading us there. I was so excited about what I was going to do with the money I earned that I failed to realize how my over-zealous ambition positioned me for eventual disappointment coupled with an immense amount of sweat equity, yielding a less-than-moderate return on my investment.

We have grandiose ambitions that come with a checklist longer than the unabridged version of "War and Peace". We chase after these colossal feats with the fervor of a caffeinated squirrel, only to find ourselves as worn out as an overused typewriter ribbon. The idea is to ensure our aspirations are as achievable as they are admirable.

Whether establishing goals personally or professionally, engineer them to be measurable, achievable, and realistic. Do your research – like understanding the efforts required to fill a five-quart basket of strawberries. Be prepared for setbacks and have a contingency plan ready to address them when they arise. Most importantly, don’t get so fixated on the reward that you lose sight of the purpose of your goal. After all, shouldn’t the journey be just as delightful as a bowl of decadently delicious summer strawberries from the bygone days of Chace Farm?

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.