Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Bill Wentworth

    I've been a member of one gym or another for a good portion of my adult life. When I lived in Napa I joined a little, no frills gym on... I think it was Jefferson Street. It had a few different names over the years since it's inception - and I can't remember what it was called during the time I was a member... I want to say Napa Fitness, but I'm not sure. As I write this, I can picture at least a dozen faces of people I came to know or simply saw on a daily basis.  I was a bit of a gym rat in those days and would spend a couple of hours every weekday morning working out. There was an older couple, originally from Maine... his name was Harold and her name... I can't remember her name. They were well into their 80s and Harold had a VERY thick, almost comical 'Down Maine' accent. Knowing I was from Massachusetts, Harold loved to strike up conversations about chopping wood, churning 'buttah' and other activities associated with his early life, growing up in New England. Almost every sentence punctuated with an 'ey-ya'.
    I mostly listened.
    There was a guy who would appear, without fail sometime around 9am. He was about 60 years old at that time and in great shape. Usually wearing red sweat pants, a grey or white sweatshirt with the sleeves hiked up a little and white sneakers, and he had a very regimented warm up routine. He'd begin on a decline bench next to the gym entrance with a bunch of half crunches followed by some toe touches and side twists. Then he'd grab a wooden broom handle, put it behind his neck (a hand on either end) and twist from side to side - then do the same, only bending at the waist. He was just warming up - and stretching. He was very disciplined and obviously knew what he was doing. I was disciplined, but didn't have a clue. His form was impeccable. Mine was...eh. After his warm up he'd go about attacking whatever muscle group was on the hit list that day. He was very focused.
    I don't remember our first conversation... who introduced himself to the other... but Bill and I developed a friendship that lasted for years.
    We became workout partners. He pushed me to work harder in the gym than I ever had before and I was soon in better shape than ever before. He taught me about nutrition, supplements, vitamins and at one point had me drinking a shot-glass-a-day of some sort of foul tasting bottled s**t that needed to be refrigerated. We'd talk. We'd go out for lunch once in a while.
    Bill was one of the most upbeat, cheerful and optimistic people I've ever known.
    Bill drove a Porche.
    Bill was cool.
 
    I moved to new Jersey in 1996 but Bill and I stayed in touch. We'd call each other often and catch up on things - often talking for over an hour. He made a business trip to Manhattan once and I met him for dinner in the city.
    I moved to Massachusetts in 2008. Bill and I maintained our friendship, talking on the phone every couple of months. He always called me "Stevers".
    The phone would ring, I'd answer, "Hello?"...
    "STEVERS!!"
     And we'd talk for the next hour.
    During one conversation, Bill told me he was trying to secure a room at the veteran's home in Yountville, a town a couple miles north of Napa.
    He was getting older.
    Though he didn't say as much, I suspect he was having health issues and, as he had no family in the area, wanted to get his ducks in a row in preparation for the inevitable decline. Rooms at the veteran's home were apparently a very coveted thing and he was on a waiting list.
     In a subsequent conversation I learned that he had gotten his room at the veteran's home. He wasn't particularly thrilled with the accommodations or the lifestyle, but I think he knew it was for the best and seemed thankful to be there.
     His calls started coming less often.
     I moved to Northern Virginia in 2011.
    The last time I called Bill a nurse answered the phone. Before she went to get him I asked how he was doing and she assured me he was just fine - and he did sound bright and cheerful as always. But there was no "STEVERS!" It became immediately obvious that he didn't know who I was. We talked for quite a while but it wasn't the same - and it kinda broke my heart. I tried reminding him of people we knew and things we'd done but he had no recollection.
    I never called again. A year later I was between sets at the gym and, for whatever reason, grabbed my phone and Googled 'Bill Wentworth Napa California' and learned that he had passed away a few months earlier. It was a sad day for me. I felt guilty that I hadn't called him for a whole year. He wouldn't have known me but it might have been nice for him to have gotten calls from someone.
 
    This morning, while Suzanne was working and before our 11am checkout, I put Travis in the back of the car and set out to find Bill's grave site. It took only a minute on my phone to find the name and address of the cemetery - which turned out to be just .3 miles from our campsite - just across the Silverado Trail and up the hill. I went into the office where a very nice woman typed his name into her computer then showed me on a map where he was.


    It's in a beautiful setting, overlooking the valley. I like that it says 'A Good Person'.

    Bill's obituary...

William Bill Wentworth, died at the Veterans Home of Yountville on Nov. 6, 2013. He was born Jan. 8(sic), 1932, in Vallejo, Calif., to William and Theda Wentworth.

As a boy, Bill enjoyed trout fishing in the Sierras with his father and friends. He served in the U.S. Army and graduated from Stanford University. Bill was the long-time owner of Napa Health Studio.


 I also found this in a 2011 edition of the Napa Valley Register. Apparently there was a lifting competition in Napa and Bill trained some of his veteran's home friends for the event. Makes me smile to think he was still inspiring others at this stage of his life.



        I think we all have just a few people in our lives whom we consider to be our best friends.
        Bill was one of mine. And truly 'A Good Person'.
   

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