The Last of the Old Guard

Lawrence Leroy “Butch” Butcher passed away. Quietly. Just like he lived. January 8, 1933 to June 21, 2025. Ninety-two years on this Earth and none wasted.

He was part of that old Klamath guard—the kind of man who didn’t boast, backed down, always had a wrench, a pocketknife, or a piece of advice on hand.

I grew up around him. His son, Jimmy, was in my graduating class. His daughter, Cindy, came up the line with my brother, three years behind me. The Butchers were like pillars in the fog—always there, always steady.

Now, I need to come clean about something.

There was a night long ago when I was behind the wheel of my ’68 Charger, hauling up that twisting stretch of Highway 101. It was about 10:30 p.m., and the Redwoods blurred past like ghosts in the mist.

I had my brother, along with three other high school knuckleheads. I wasn’t thinking about safety or scenery. I was thinking about Candy–red-headed, blue-eyed, and waiting for me back in Crescent City.

I hit the 30 mph curve, going closer to 80, tires squealing like sinners in church. I flew past the Butcher’s car like a bat outta Hades. I made it home, dropped everyone off, and tore off again like James Dean.

The next day, my folks got a call.

Mr. Butcher had seen it all and wanted them to know. He said I could’ve killed every last one of us. My mom, bless her, tried to defend me, “Oh, you must be mistaken,” but I knew better.

So did she. So did Mr. Butcher.

He was right, of course. I was young, dumb, and full of adrenaline. He didn’t yell; he presented the facts like a good witness, a good neighbor, and an even better father.

I never told him thank you, but I should have.

Mr. Butcher had been preparing for this final stretch for a while now. You could see it, according to Cindy.

The way he got his affairs in order. The way he spoke softer but more clearly. The way he looked at the world—longer, with more weight behind it, like he was memorizing you for the road ahead.

He didn’t want a service, and I reckon that fits. The man didn’t need a spectacle, just our quiet remembrance. Cindy asks us to hold him in our hearts, which is easy enough, as he has been in mine since that misty night in the Redwoods.

He was a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and—this part’s hard for me to say out loud—a friend, though he never knew it. I didn’t see that coming.

Not back when I was peeling through corners and burning rubber with KPOD on the radio. But, as time passes, many things change, and one of the best aspects of aging is discovering who your true friends are.

Now, as I look around, there aren’t many left from that generation. Mrs. Dorothy Pasch, Mr. Ralph Rode and Mr. Mike Collins, as far as I can tell. The last of our parents. When they goe, a whole era will slip away into the fog like headlights on a winding road.

So, here’s to Mr. Butcher. May he ride the curves in peace, mist on the trees, stars overhead, and may we all be lucky enough to have someone like him call our folks when we’re being stupid.