Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Tomorrow is Hugh Thompson’s birthday; and while I’m not even sure how old he will be or what he plans to do to celebrate, he has been on my mind today. No particular reason, except perhaps that among my friends and acquaintances, his birthday is the first to greet every new year. And, because I’m usually still writing thank you notes and belated holiday greetings to those who sent me cards, I rarely remember to wish Hugh the best on his day.

But I haven’t forgotten that, when I was first divorced years ago, Hugh made sure his home was a welcome respite when other couples dropped me from their guest lists. I haven’t forgotten that Hugh makes the meanest vodka gimlets in the world. His wife, Judi, and I have had more than a few; and they are always smooth going down.

I haven’t forgotten how many times through the years that I’ve eaten in Judi and Hugh’s home, that we’ve played card games and word games (Hugh could always beat me) and board games, that we attended each other’s family events, and that Hugh is definitely one of the most kind-hearted people I know.

He isn’t rich, and he doesn’t have a lot of credentials after his name. And, frankly, that doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that I consider the husband of a friend a friend in his own right. So it’s about time I remember his birthday. Happy Birthday, Hugh.