“When a man passes from this world, if he has five people whom he can count as true friends, he can consider himself to indeed be a lucky man.” — Jonathon Winters

THE ABOVE WORDS WERE SPOKEN AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE of Dr. John Silverthorne many years ago by his long-time friend, the late Jonathon Winters. Jonathon was honored to be considered one of those five, as well as counting Dr. Silverthorne as one of his.

I am thinking of those words today as they pertain not to Dr. Silverthorne, but to his son, Donald “Donnie” Silverthorne. In a similar vein, I know that I count Donnie to be at the top of my list of life-long friends — and that Donnie’s list extends far beyond that number.

Donnie was a rare individual. He gathered friends quickly, the result of a combination of charm, character, intelligence and an engaging personality. He had the unique ability to quickly disarm an uncomfortable situation, converting it 180 degrees to everyone’s satisfaction. More on that later.

I first met Donnie my sophomore year of college, when he approached me to be his chem lab partner for reasons known to him but mysterious to me at the time. Through that encounter, one instigated by his perceptive skills, a life-long friendship developed. That friendship will remain with me in endearing memories for my remaining years.

It was a friendship with a regrettable gap, one that remained open far too long, but one filled in time for my oldest son to get to know a man I loved as a brother and he as Uncle Donnie.

There is a litany of memories that flow forth as I think of the years gone by: the night we stayed at Nick’s on upper Greenville in Dallas, long past closing time, to watch a 3 a.m. jam session with Joe Ely and Carl Perkins; or the time “The General” booted us from our freebie in the presidential suite at Careyes, Mexico — the next day Donnie played him like a fiddle, thanking him for his graciousness in picking up our dinner tab (which we had charged to his room); or the day Donnie brought Jonathon to my house for barbecued ribs; or the Sunday afternoon at a place in the Deep Ellum section of Dallas where we listened to a local three-piece band that Donnie later invited to join us for beers. That band went on to bigger things, led by their lead singer, Jim Heath, aka the Reverend Horton Heat.

Donnie just had a way of making things happen.

I mentioned his ability to turn an uncomfortable situation into a positive. You will forgive me if I relate one such story.

We were in Dallas, and a long night of carousing was ending at an all-night diner. Sitting in the booth next to us was a woman looking for nothing more than dinner after her late shift had ended. She was sitting close enough for easy conversation, which Donnie instigated without invitation. Being a polite Texan, she answered each question, all of which were timed for maximum inconvenience, usually just as she was fixin’ to take a bite of her club sandwich.

This went on for a bit too long. Her irritation, apparent to me, was lost on Donnie. As her meal was ending, her check on the table, her pecan pie half consumed, Donnie asked what she did for a living.

At this question her facial expression changed to one of smugness, as if she was glad the question had been asked:

“I work for the Dallas Police Department.”

The fork, with the last bite of pecan pie, approached her lips.

“What do you do there?”

The pie did not reach her waiting lips. Her expression changed again as irritation dissipated as if she was about to deliver an ending coup de grace:

“I am the one who takes your picture and finger prints when you are getting booked.”

With that the pie was finished.

The bill had been paid and the woman wasn gathering her change, anxious to depart.

“Well, please, don’t take this the wrong way,” Donnie said, “but …”

She was standing now, purse on her shoulder.

“I really hope I never see you again.”

That line broke the mood, changing the entire course of the conversation. She laughed and joined us, and she and Donnie quickly became friends.

Donnie just had a way of making things happen.

* * *

HE CAME TO THE HOUSE IN LONG BEACH ONE DAY and I knew something was wrong. He was headed back to Dallas, he said, and he asked me to hold on to something for him: his dad’s Belgium-made Browning superposed 12-gauge.

Donnie and I lost touch shortly after that. His life took an unfortunate turn through personal tragedies, poorly handled as he sought, and never found, solace in various substances.

The day he gave me the Browning was the last time I saw him for 18 years. In that time he fell on hard times, while I moved north. I took the gun with me, and it remained all those years in the gun safe.

Time went by. And if it had not been for the Browning, I might never have found Donnie again.

Several attempts to locate him proved fruitless. His brother Jackie was no longer working at the hospital that I last knew of. Numerous searches failed to turn up his younger brother Travis.

* * *

I TOOK THE BROWNING TO A GUNSMITH IN NAPA.

“Fine weapon. How much do you want for it?”

But the gun’s value was not in the engravings on the side, or the excellent Belgian craftsmanship. The real value was in the stories behind the gun.

The stories the Silverthornes knew. The stories I didn’t know.

Fearing that Donnie’s fall had been a deep one, I knew I had to find Jackie.

For some time I tried, through various online searches and phone calls, to find Jackie or Travis. Finally I went online and posted a “vanity” at a website chat board, giving various pieces of information on Donnie and the Silverthornes, including last known locations: Atlanta, Dallas and Long Beach.

It took some time. Many people in Dallas and Atlanta responded. Questions were answered, others remained.

One day I got a private email from an attorney in Florida who identified himself as Donnie’s sponsor.

“I know Don, he’s alive and well.” Mr. Olsen said during our initial phone call. He asked for some confirming information that only Donnie would know. The task was easily accomplished.

“I will give him your number.”

Long story short (though now probably too late), I found myself reconnected with the best friend I ever had.

If it had not been for the Browning, I might never have found Donnie again. Our friendship was quickly renewed with visits to Dallas and later Florida. The Browning was returned, along with the stories and memories contained.

The years of absence were in the past.

Then one Friday night at dinner my phone indicated a missed call from Travis. A call from him was a rare occurrence. It was one of those times when you instinctively know the news is not going to be good.

Travis confirmed what I already knew in my heart. The words of Texas songwriter Guy Clark came to mind:

And when the house is empty
And the lights begin to fade
And there’s nothing to protect you
Except the window shade
And it’s hard to put your finger
On the thing that scares you most
And you can’t tell the difference
Between an angel and a ghost
Old friends, they shine like diamonds
Old friends, you can always call
Old friends Lord, you can’t buy ’em
You know it’s old friends after all

Goodbye old friend. Memories of you will always shine like diamonds in my heart.

Dennis Lund is a mechanical engineer who lived in Benicia for more than 20 years.