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My earliest recollection of Ed Penslien was our connection with baseball. Living where he did, he cheered the New York Yankees while I followed the Brooklyn Dodgers. We put that difference aside and over the years we had several "catches" together while we talked about life. Ed was the first person as I recall gave me a lasting life lesson. We were watching a game on TV at his house when a player muffed a ground ball. I said something about what an awful player this guy was. Eddie corrected me immediately saying something like "every player on that field is better than you'll ever be. You have no place saying he's awful." I didn't argue, I understood quickly he was talking about how good players in the majors are, not how bad I was. Even now I hesitate before I criticize a play in any sport I'm watching.
I do remember walking through the woods near his house and seeing dinosaur footprints preserved in the rock.
We weren't always the nice kids parents want. There was the time he was out of high school and I might have been also but not sure. This was a wild period in his life and one I was to emulate just a few years later. He took me out to a club that was just over the state line into New York (where the drinking age was 18). Full of people with a loud band and good-looking girls everywhere. We stayed several hours and headed home. We both knew this might be a a little touchy. We sneaked around to the back of the house and as quietly as possible opened the door and stepped into the dark kitchen. Then the lights went on. There were both of our mothers sitting at a table their facial expressions warlike and oh boy did we get a talking to.
For a while we didn't visit much but now and then I caught wind of his activities and I sort of knew he was out there somewhere still carrying on. Then one day my mother told me Ed was settled down, getting married (in a tone that said she thought I should too). Then a week or so later she told me he had driven his little sports car off the road and landed in a field. I laughed and thought "Nah he's not done yet." A few years later I did the same thing, woke up in my car in a cow pasture with a cow looking at me through the window.
Then there was the story of my wedding. It was scheduled for late afternoon and I was getting cold feet. My father didn't drink, but every Christmas salesmen gave him bottles of booze. He hid them in the darkness of a back corner in a lower-level kitchen cabinet. We were sitting around all day with little to do and I guess around noon I went into that stash and poured myself a drink. I'm not sure if Ed had one. Anyway after that one and a couple more I made a proposal to him. I suggested we take his car right now and head for Boston. My plan was to sell our bodies to Harvard medical school (I'd heard they paid and then made sure they could collect the body when you left it). Then we could go on a wild bender through New England until the money ran out. Of course he would have none of it and the wedding went on as planned, though I don't remember a whole lot of the rest of the day.
At one point I had imagined a great bachelor life for us living in a cool apartment and working in New York City with a cabin in the forests and mountains to the north.
Over the years we went our separate ways me to Alaska and him to a more sedate life in the business world. He brought his son to Alaska in the 90s and we spent a week moving around even going to the East Pole, a cabin I had built in the Alaska Bush where I lived for several winters. It was during this time he delivered the greatest compliment I think I have ever received. I was telling his son about some of our wild adventures and how I had always looked up to his father, my hero. At this point Ed interrupted me. He said, Tim I have been in business for years, you on the other hand are a legend in this family. Thinking about it now I'm guessing I blushed, but he wouldn't let me argue.
Still, to this day only he can call me that because in my mind he was the guy I looked up to and admired. Rest easy my friend, I am not far behind you still. Lifting a glass to you tonight, my first in 2025. I am giving up for the night. Blame it on the whiskey I drank in your honor.
My sympathies to his daughter Janice, his son Ed and Nancy who must be the most wonderful former wife anybody could ever have.
His family wrote