Did You Celebrate National Arthur Day? It's Not Too Late

It’s quite possible you didn't know Sunday was National Arthur Day. It’s been celebrated every October 13th since 2015 when I declared the holiday to honor my friend Arthur Hillsbery. He’d died that January. Way too young. To be honest, he’d made some bad choices so as tragic as it was, there was a bit of inevitability about it.

More on that in a moment.

The older you become, the more that you're supposed to let go of traditions from your childhood. Among those is the idea that you are "best friends" with someone. When you're in 4os or your 50s, the idea that you have a best friend usually starts to fade away.

But Arthur was my best friend. From the moment I met him until the January morning when I was yanked from my sleep by a phone call saying that he had died.

The moment I opened my eyes and saw that it was Arthur’s wife Jacque calling, I knew why she was calling. I didn't what to answer the phone, somehow thinking that if I didn't answer, Arthur would still be alive.

He’d returned home from the hospital the night before. To this day, I'm pretty sure that, in his mind, he knew what was coming and wanted it to happen at home. I had been in dialysis that night and never got to say goodbye.

Arthur was one of the approximately 5 million Americans who are living with congestive heart failure at any given time. Of those, about 1.4 million are younger than 60 — as Art was . Around 550,000 more people are diagnosed every year, and heart failure contributes to the death of about 300,000 people every year.

Here's the thing.

He did not do a lot to take care of himself physically. For a long time, neither did I, and we would enable each other. It was never anything like drugs or far too much alcohol. We just made decisions that so many in this country make all the time.

Fried chicken on a salad instead of grilled. Whipped cream instead of passing. They were the kind of decisions that gave me diabetes and then kidney failure. It gave him heart disease.

While his heart failed physically, it never came close metaphorically. He had the biggest heart of anyone I ever met.

He was one to intentionally hold on to certain things from childhood — notably best friends and grudges.

If Arthur was your friend, he was your best friend.

He wanted people to be happy, comfortable.

Once he knew that you liked something, that you had an interest, a hobby, it was information that was stored away.

It didn’t matter what the interest was — whether you liked old books, gardening equipment or the Ducks — Arthur had his eyes open for you.

There would be a phone call, or he would just show up, treasure in hand.

He had a key to my house.

I can’t tell you how many times I would get a call saying that he had left something for me.

A pinback button reading “Paperboy” on the cap I had bought in Ireland when we traveled there together.

An old book of Yiddish poetry.

A yellowing newspaper from 50 years ago,

My better 83 percent wouldn't necessarily be thrilled with the additional clutter coming into the house, but it would be allowed to stay because it was a treasure found by Arthur.

And how he loved finding treasures — whether it was at a flea market, a garage sale, eBay or at work.

After he died, colleagues cleaned out his locker at ESCO, the steel company where he worked, and they found some of those treasures.

They included an old beer bottle of indeterminate age and a rusted ESCO sign.

And while he would occasionally complain about work — who doesn’t? — he loved ESCO.

It is an old company filled with tradition. And to Arthur, few things were as important as a sense of tradition.

As much as he loved a crappy movie — remind me one day to tell you about "Eagle Eye" — he was just as happy watching the History Channel.

He also loved to learn new things.

Even watching something like "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives," the different dishes were just part of the attraction. He loved to hear the stories of the places.

Arthur loved to share this knowledge, loved to tell stories.

As many who know me will tell you, I like to nap in the car — while someone else drives, of course. The thing is, my desire to nap was no match for his desire to tell a story.

"And …," he would say.

"Or …"

"Did I ever tell you …?"

And we would be off to the races.

And the funny thing is, the answer to the question was often yes.

Because if Artur found a joke that worked, or a story that was worth telling, he was not afraid to tell it again. And again.

He was brave that way.

On a serious note, he really was brave.

He knew he wasn’t well. He knew there were limitations. But he loved life, and he was determined to live it to the fullest — to treat the limitations as obstacles that he could overcome.

In the month or so before the surgery from which he would not recover, we talked a bunch about what was happening and what might happen.

And the thing is, there really wasn’t any talk of fear.

He talked about how lucky he was to have been able to live the life he did, to have had all the adventures that he had — hopping trains, Japan, New York, dragon boating, Ireland, England, Paris. And, of course, Jacque.

His wife was his greatest adventure, and it was she whom he worried about most.

The day he went into the hospital, he made sure to pack her a picnic basket.

He talked a lot about how blessed he was to have her and how lucky they were to have all of us.

I think Artur was preparing himself for whatever this adventure is and knew that Jacque would always be surrounded by love.

While he certainly had his grudge side — there were many restaurants that quickly dropped off our list because of slights, real and perceived — he was really a softie, a man whose ability to love was limitless.

It's so easy to be overcome by grief — to let it overwhelm you, envelop you, swallow you whole. Art would never have any of that. There were so many things I wish he'd been around for, not the least of which was me receiving a new kidney.

That brings me to National Arthur Day.

In my mind it’s a day to celebrated every October 13, his birthday. That said, while it’s marked one day a year, the spirit of the day can be lived every moment of every day.

Take a moment to call a loved one, check in with someone with whom you haven’t spoken in a while, let a coworker know you appreciate them. Make the effort to pay attention to the people who are normally the extras in the movie of your life: the barista giving you your latte, the dry cleaner promising to get the stain out of your sweater, the person at checkout at the grocery store.

Almost every phone conversation that I had with Arthur ended with us telling each other, "Love you."

Whether it was him saying that, of course, he would come walk Lucy, our dog at the time, or me saying hell, no I won’t see "Eagle Eye" again — the last words were pretty much always…

Love you.

Same here, buddy.