Photo by J.R. Breuer
My friend Paul Breuer died this past Sunday morning. He has been sick for a while, but died rather suddenly. He knew he was dying but didn't really know what from. I will miss him a lot.
Paul came from the midwest, like me, and ended up in Arizona for the rest of his life. He was a gracious and gregarious man. He fixed cars for a living and shot people in the streets of Tombstone for fun. He was an actor and a clown of sorts. He was a husband, father, grandfather and friend.
Paul was the kind of guy that, when you go to his funeral you can't be certain who will show up. He walked with bikers and hippies. He stood tall with civic leaders. He knew the down-side of life, but lived for the betterment of the people around him. His acting, in films and on the streets of Tombstone, were for the benefit of charities for children. He did it all for fun, but he did it all out of love. He was a gunfighter, preacher, local character. None and all were him at the same time.
For personal reasons, I knew him well. We'd see each other very irregularly, even though we lived only a few miles away, but whenever we were together, it was like the last time was just yesterday. He knew me and I knew him like very few people can say that they do. He was rough around the edges, but he was a perfect man.
I saw his wife, J.R., the morning before he died. She said he was feeling poorly, but they were OK.
All I wish is that I could have seen him that one last time and laughed about how my beard would never equal his. Believe me, I tried, but he was always the king.
He still is.
