My Mentor, My Friend, David Juliano
Life Is Too Short
This week, I learned another harsh lesson about waiting for tomorrow and about life going by so quickly.
When I was young, probably around six years old, we had a neighbor, David Juliano, who was restoring an old 40's Ford in his carport, and I was a curious, pain-in-the-ass kid, so I would go across the street and haunt him as often as I could.
This man has the patience of Jesus himself. He would explain and show me why he was doing certain things in a certain order; he was the first person to introduce me to Go-Jo hand soap, which I thought was nasty. He and his wife occasionally had me over for supper, and it was there that I would learn about burgers with French dressing.
The bottom line was he cared. Dave took the time to help me with my curiosity, and don't get me wrong, I would get under his skin at times, but he would always handle me with a cool temperament.
Eventually, he moved away, and life went on. I went my way, and Dave went his way, both of us carving out our lives and careers and me getting married and having my child.
A few years back, I ran into Dave again. He went to the same restaurant to have breakfast. Dave was much older and retired from his land surveying business and still had that 1940 Ford and also a mid-forties truck which he would always drive, one or the other, to breakfast.
Dave and I enjoyed many conversations about life, cars, and car shows, and he was still the same enthusiastic car nut I remember.
I remember just a few years back, he was sitting at a local pizza joint with his daughter, and I sat next to him to have a conversation. I asked, "Where's the wife?" To which his face went blank, and his daughter leaned forward and told me her mom had passed.
At that moment, my heart ached for him because, after having lost my wife, I knew that pain all too well.
I then noticed every morning when Dave came to breakfast, he had his wife's dog with him and always brought that dog out a treat too. Yep, he had that dog with him always. Even at car shows, they had a close bond which I understood.
I looked forward to car show season because Dave would always see me at breakfast and pull out his personal planner in which he had every car show listed and would tell me which ones were good and which ones he was going to, and again, we would talk cars and life.
When I saw him at the shows, it always put an emotional tear in my eye watching him and that dog. You know, it's something I can't explain; you had to see it. I wanted to get a picture of him and his dog, but I always was in a hurry and kept saying I'll get it at the next show.
Well, with covid and all the fear out there, the next show never came. Shows were getting canceled, and Dave wasn't at breakfast much anymore because he didn't want to catch it.
About a week ago, I went to pick up my breakfast sandwiches while on a salt run, and I asked my waitress Tanya "Have you seen Dave lately?"
I got that familiar look that spoke news that wasn't good.
Tanya told me that Dave had passed away about three weeks ago.
My stomach went into a knot, and I could feel my energy drain from my body as I struggled not to have tears on my cheeks in public. I just wanted to get in my truck to wrap my head around what I heard.
This news about Dave has really hammered life and its meaning home for me. You see, people never know what they are to some, how they may have touched a life, and we always put off letting them know.
I will never get that picture of him with his dog, nor will I get to tell him what he meant to me and how he was such a mentor in shaping my future.
Lesson learned; don't wait. Don't think you always have tomorrow because you don't. Living with regrets is a terrible thing, so don't put off telling and showing people what they mean to you. Please don't put off visiting or hanging out because our days are short; you will never know when the bell tolls for you.
Thank you, David Juliano, for being who you were, for guiding me into cars and shows, and for a lifestyle that is so rewarding. There will be a huge empty place at every car show I go to, especially the one's you and I attended together. I will surely miss you, just sitting there with your dog in total peace: Godspeed, my friend.
Copyright © 2021 Bill Renda
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