It was late fall. We stood on a hilltop in the middle of the woods. The dry litter beneath our feet crunched with each step. Only the blonde leaves of American Beech remained on the trees. They shook in the breeze like a distant rattle that came from every direction.

A few feet down the slope, dug into the hillside, stood the foundation of a barn. Concrete block. The outer band, floor joists, and decking were finished. Cut off pieces of lumber were scattered like leftover crumbs of a biscuit. It looked to me like a massive, flat pool table.

We both reached for our tool belts and buckled up for the day.

When you wear a leather tool belt long enough, it conforms to your body. The pouches bend and fall into a familiar feel. They wear and take on the shape of your tools. Speed square, hammer, and pencil all fit into a particular spot. Long hours with this contraption on your side make it possible to reach for a tape measure without ever looking.

Wayne always wore long sleeves, even in summer. An old cotton shirt. Probably one he wore out to dinner with his family at one time but now demoted to the life of a work shirt. Out here, the stains and holes didn’t matter.

The air had turned cool. He wore a light jacket and a straw hat. He always sported a sweat band, barely visible beneath the up-tilted brim of his hat.

He never wore jeans, not that I remember. Khaki trousers were his choice. They had no holes, at least no big ones, but the stains of mortar, caulk, and paint covered both pant legs. There was no need to ruin a good pair of pants.

Wayne never did cast a big shadow, but his heart and work ethic were huge. It was one of the things that defined our friendship. It defined everything he did, from preaching to fighting fires, to building barns. Wherever he worked, people respected what he brought to the table. Habitat. Disaster relief. Mission work. He always left an impression.

“Let’s walk over here before we start. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Wayne was a contemplative man. He took in the whole world with his eyes and studied it with his mind. He could be interested in the color of a rock one minute, and in the next, he could turn the conversation to things that fathom some of the deepest mysteries of life.

“Look at that,” he might say, holding a leaf in his hand. He enjoyed the game of asking me about trees. He marveled at every detail. He was equally comfortable speaking of feathers, baking, and death all with the same child-like wonder.

We walked up the slope a short distance away from the barn.

“This,” he said with his arms slightly spread out to either side, “is where I’m gonna build the house.”

We walked in and out of imaginary rooms, uninhibited by walls and doorways that did not yet exist.

He took a ladder and leaned it up against a hickory that stood just outside the footprint of the house. He took his tape measure from his belt, uncoiled several feet of it, and held the tip 6 or 8 feet up in the air next to the ladder.

“Climb up the ladder,” he said. “Put your feet near the tip of the tape measure.”

I didn’t often question Wayne. I knew that whatever he had in that mind of his had already been thought through, forwards and backwards several times. He hardly ever asked anything that he himself had not played out in his mind a hundred times.

“What am I gonna do when I get up there?”

“Bear with me,” he grinned. “You’ll see.”

I climbed the ladder. He instructed me to look down the hill through the open woodland.

“You see that?”

“I see the creek, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“That’s the view I’ll have looking out my dining room windows. Big windows, so I can see it just like you’re seeing it now.”

The creek winds in a westerly direction nearly 80 feet below the top of the hill, maybe a hundred yards away. When the sun sets over the Pine Mountain ridge, the evening light reflects off the water up through the shadows of the white oak and hickory.

I said to myself, “Leave it to Wayne to climb a ladder and dream of what might be.”

This past Saturday, I did a little volunteer work to help with the annual spaghetti supper for the Boy Scouts. Troop 40 serves up a good meal to raise money for the coming year. Camping, uniforms, river trips. It ain’t free. So, the community turns out in droves for $5 a plate.

Thomas Scott was in charge of cooking the noodles. I’ve known Thomas a long time. His mama taught my kids in third grade well before I had grey hair.

He had five propane burners set up in the yard, each with a large capacity pot set on top. He and I chatted for a while. Catching up. I think the last time I saw Thomas was in this same spot last year.

“You and I have a mutual friend that I think about a lot,” he said.

Thomas is a volunteer firefighter. He was talking about Wayne.

“He used to come into our meetings with a big tray of cookies. It just kinda lightened the mood.”

That was Wayne. He loved to feed people.

Thomas went on.

“Occasionally, I’ll bring some cookies just like Wayne did. The new guys don’t get it, but us old guys . . . we remember.”

“I sure miss him,” he said.

For a while we shared Wayne stories. We laughed. Then, there was a long pause. Thomas was draining off a finished batch of noodles. Steam rising into his face as he bent over the pot.

“You know,” I said, “come March 23rd, it’ll be two years he’s been gone. Hard to believe.”

One thing for sure, this old world keeps making its way around the sun no matter what happens in this life. Good men come and go, like a mist, like the Book says. Some of them leave a mark not easily forgotten.

I think about all that Wayne and I shared. The work. The honest conversations about cancer. The long talks about grief. The comradery. The joys of life. Leaving no regrets on the table.

It seems like yesterday we sat in my yard at sunset. His wide eyes. His raucous laughter.

That day, when I stood up on his ladder, is close to 28 years ago, now. We did not see this day back then. It was too far off. Too unthinkable.

I told Thomas, “He was a good friend.”

A few weeks back, Marion and I visited with Debbie, Wayne’s wife. We sat at her dining room table and ate a bite of lunch. As I looked out the west facing window, I remembered this story. The rascal was right to put these windows here.

The view is spectacular.