A local woman stopped by the newspaper office last week to drop off a press release. I was going to just pass it off to one of the reporters, but I figured it would be best to take the woman's name and number, just in case.
"It's Carole Campbell," she said. "Campbell - like the soup!"
While writing down her number, my mind wandered. I tried to recall why it sounded so familiar. Then it hit me.
"Dave Campbell," I said, under my breath.
"What?" the woman wanted to know.
"Oh, nothing," I said, smiling at her and sending her on her way out the door.
Dave Campbell was a good friend of my host father's. I only met him once, during a weekend in Vermont about eight years ago, but he was one of the nicest guys you'll ever see.
Tall and blonde, Dave had a great sense of humor. He and his wife, kids and two well-behaved golden retrievers came to spend the weekend with us in nature's paradise. I don't even think it was ski season, but there were always plenty of things to do in the family's "cabin."
We were standing right in front of the grey stone fireplace when we first met. Dave took a few long, bouncy strides towards me, stretched out his right hand and said, "I'm Dave. Dave Campbell - like the soup!"
A few days after Sept. 11, 2001, I found out Dave had his office in one of the two towers of the World Trade Center. As far as I know, they never found his body.