Our friend Deb Glessner just sent me this photo of me, Ed Gulley, and his wonderful creation, the Tin Man. Her picture brought up a lot of feelings.

Ed was a farmer and artist, and sculptor. And, for a while, my best friend.

He recycled the Thin Man from old factory parts from his cow farm. He filled four barns full of broken-down tractor parts.

That’s how he made all of his art.

Deb, a gifted photographer, took this photo of us with the brand-new Tin Man at one of our last Open Houses. Ed, a larger-than-life human being, had become a much-loved fixture at our Open Houses. Like me, he loved to talk to groups of people and always had plenty to say.

He had a lot of fans.

Mostly, he ranted about milk prices, even after I told him this was the wrong crowd for that. Ed did not care. He stood his ground wherever he was and whoever he was talking to. I can’t be sure why I loved him so much; we were Mars and the Moon.

He loved me back; our friendship was instant, deep, and kind for all the kidding; we did love each other. I never had a friend like that. I will never have another one like that. I was never good at making friends; it was easy with Ed.

I love his passion for making art out of farm junk, and he loved my independence and determination to live my life. Maria was his art manager and adviser; he trusted her completely. She thought he was very talented and was on the way to being a successful artist.

He was planning to host his own art shows when he got sick.

Ed was a dairy farmer in the bone, and when he came to our open houses, he loved to give his milk prices speech, which I learned by heart. He was one of my best friends ever, and I miss him. There will never be another Ed.

When he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he went home and never saw a doctor again. He didn’t want to die in the way people who get brain cancer and get treated sometimes die.

I visited him daily during his illness, bringing him fruit, art supplies, and books.

When he got home, he built an extension to his small farmhouse and put a bed in it. That was his home for the rest of his life.

He wanted his wife Carol and kids and grandkids to share in the process, and it was beautiful to see them all come in and visit with him as if nothing had changed. Most people hide their deaths from their families. Ed invited them in. His four big and fluffy dogs were also there for it.

There was no way, he said, he was going to die in a hospital.

Ed never stopped joking and pontificating. He humanized death, and demonized it for his family. They were happy to love him to the end.

I think I made the family uncomfortable,  as I make a lot of people, but he insisted that he wanted me to come every day. We never had any trouble talking. Once or twice, when he was suffering,  he asked me if I could help him to die. I had to say no.

Ed was neither intimidated nor impressed with me. He just liked me. One of the family members stays in touch with me, but I haven’t contacted the others or heard from them.

We did get in a last lunch with each other. It was a struggle for him, but he did it without complaint.

We still made each other laugh, almost up to the end, when he finally accepted hospice care.

Again and again,  Ed insisted I write a book about his life; he thought he was fascinating. He was right. I always gave him the same answer. He wasn’t Winston Churchill, and I didn’t want to write a book about him.

But honestly, his life story would have made a pretty great book. Ed rescued every animal in trouble, and they always knew where to go. He had four peacocks strutting around in the backyard. And a goat that picked pockets.

I never let on that I was tempted.

The man had a huge ego and the life to back it up.

Ed was a strong as a bear before he got sick, and he loved to help people.

He showed up whenever something rough needed to be done on the farm.

When we had to call the police to shoot a wounded bear in our pasture, he decided to take the bear home and skin him, and he picked up the bear and tossed him into the truck like a stuffed animal. He was amazed that I didn’t want to keep the body.

There was only one Ed.

He thought nothing of carrying huge pieces of wood down to the creek and building a hand-made bridge so we could get out to the forest behind our house.  We called it The Gulley Bridge.

It lasted until last week when the rain finally got it, and the flooding creek took it away. Maria says she is going to rebuild it herself.

And she will. She says Ed taught her how to do it. I think she wants to build it in his honor.

He invited me to come over to his farm one day and help him castrate a newborn male. I passed. I did agree to milk the cows if he would show me how to do it. I did well but got kicked in the head. “You’re fine,” said Ed, telling me to hurry up.

Ed respected that I was a pussy, and a city child,  as he put it. There were no hard feelings.

We trusted one another and could – and did – say anything to each other. I realize now that cancer was growing inside Ed’s brain when this photo was taken, but he never complained or showed the tumor-killing him.

Love you, Ed, and I miss you. You loved being an artist and always knew what it meant to be a real friend. You taught me a lot.

There will never be anyone like you in my life. Life is full of crisis and mystery.

The Tin Man fell apart, I’m sorry to say,  but his head is still intact, and I put him in a place of honor, my garden bed. He’s front and center; it looks like he grew up there.

 

Rest in peace, pal; now I can remember you daily. Thanks for selling me the Tin Man. I know you could have gotten a lot more money for it.

You know right away what it would mean to me. Please don’t bore the angels to death with your endless milk price rant. I doubt they will care any more than the people at our Open House did.