I liken Fred Haase to
that sinewy part of the muscle that runs along the backbone in the human body.
It does not possess the refining, graceful qualities of the hand, it is not
given to exhibitions of speed as is the foot.
It is the back muscle
that is called upon to carry the heavy load, both when building in the physical
world and figuratively when persevering against lifes' tempest and adversities
in the unseen world of the human psyche.
It is the plodder,
the workhorse, the load bearing structure, the defining characteristic of
bravery. It does not flatter you as the mouth, charm you as the face, unlock
mysteries as does the mind or tantalize as do the eyes.
The back works in
sturdy humility and without its faithful grind there would be no progress—for
work must be done, loads must be carried and forward thrust realized.
Such was my friend Fred
Haase—gritty, stalwart, a load bearing structure. He was always welcome
around my fire and he always treated me like the guest of honor when I was
around his.
I will miss those camp fire chats after a long satisfying day in the hills,
a foot or on horseback, with him.
I will miss seeing his ruddy faced complexion in the hue of a cold Nevada
campfire night and, while it is a stark reality that we will not share those
same fires ever again, I somehow detect a small voice whispering in the
winter winds warning me not to be surprised if all my fires in the hills
burn a little colder because Fred is not there to share them.
But, much
louder still will be the echoes of Freds' voice in the ears of my recollection,
his joy, his comradery, his kinship... much louder indeed, the remembered
voice of Fred himself.
Nature alone
shall vainly try,
Unhelped, to make such men as I:
For in my raw-begotten stuff
I'm shiftless, dangerous,
and tough.
My right to live cannot begin
Till I am shaped by discipline;—
And then, oh then, such stuff as I
Oft burns heroic, ere it die.
circa 1901
