We lost Dennis 13 years ago this month. Something reminded me of him and I spent an hour going through his facebook page, which remains active as a memorial to this remarkable guy.
Dennis and I were born about a month apart in 1955. My family had moved to Santa Clara in November '59 and my mom was looking for social contacts, so we went to the San Jose Unitarian Church. As a 4 year old, I was sent to "Sunday School" while my parents went to the adult service. There was a boy that seemed about my age next to an empty chair, so I sat in it. He was named Dennis and we were fast friends. After class, we went outside. Dennis said "Oh, there are my parents" and pointed at my parents. I was a little freaked out by this. It turned out that my parents were talking to Dennis' parents, coffee cups in hand. (Here's a joke: There's a fork in the pathway to heaven, with a sign. One path leads to Eternal bliss and salvation, the other leads to coffee and discussion. You can always tell the Unitarians, because they're the ones that take the second path.) Our families became lifelong friends.

This picture was taken in 1962 at our then brand new house in Cupertino. From left to right: My mom, Ursula Gobets, Arthur Gobets. Mom's watering the grass, which was planted just a day or two earlier. The '57 Chevy belonged to the neighbor. I hope they sold it to a collector and it didn't end up as scrap.
Dennis and I remained very good friends for most of our childhoods. We'd often be deposited with the other's parents to be "babysat". We went on numerous outings together. We were both into trains, we both loved to explore and climb trees and other things. Dennis was a little more of a risk-taker than I was, but I'd generally follow along. I have a very strong memory of playing on a Steam Locomotive that was in a park somewhere on the peninsula. (I think this was SP "Pacific" #2472, which was subsequently restored to operation and is the founding centerpiece of the Golden Gate Railroad Museum).

All the gauges and levers in the cab had been removed and the firebox welded closed, but we could pretend pretty well. A lot of our games did involve running around and climbing on various parts of the locomotive. I remember it as a great jungle gym. One of the games we played was "Casey Jones", and we had to jump off the locomotive into the sandbox below before we crashed and exploded. Those driving wheels are 73 inches and the running board is at least a couple of feet higher, so the drop to the sandbox was 8 feet. Dennis just did it, but I had to be coaxed.
As we got older, we didn't need to be baby-sat so much, and as our homes were 5 miles apart, we fell partly out of touch. The last time I saw him while we were kids was when he was playing "Teddy" in Sunnyvale High School's production of Arsenic and Old Lace. He was fantastic in the role. I've seen a few other productions of this play and Dennis was the best. Not long later, I moved away, eventually to the Seattle area. Dennis moved to the Santa Cruz area. We interacted only a handful of times during the time that Dennis worked for Apple and I worked for Microsoft.
We suddenly reconnected when Dennis' father and my mother were in the same hospital wing at the same time, in early 2001. After that, we got together several times. Dennis tried to recruit me in to E Clampus Vitus, and it almost worked...I support their historical activities, but I don't enjoy alcohol as much as seems to be required. Facebook, I found, was a surprisingly good way for us boomers to reconnect, and Dennis and I monitored each other, and frequently commented on the other's activities. The very last communication we had was his funny remark about a photo I'd taken. Facebook reminded me that it was 13 years ago today, and that's what sent me into this nostalgia-dive.
I happened to be visiting my Dad when Dennis' mom called to tell us that Dennis had died. I was very shocked. I'd been hoping to get together with him during the trip. I unfortunately needed to get back to Seattle before the memorial and was very bummed to not be able to make it.
