Two weeks ago, my long-time scooter buddy and good friend Francis crossed the divide between this life and the next. The news came to me through the obituary in the local newspaper, a fact which still makes me feel badly, not only because my world is now one friend smaller, but also because (had I been a better friend to him) I should have seen it coming.

If you read back through this blog, you will find five years of scooter trips which Francis and I have taken. Francis was the first to show me the legendary Kancamagus Trail. One day, we rode to Lincolnville Beach and then took the ferry to Islesboro and rode completely around the island. We rode to Boothbay Harbor and around Ocean Point at least twice. Francis rode with me to two of the Four Corners of Maine (Grafton Notch and Kittery). And one summer, Francis led me all the way to Massena, New York, way the heck out on the St. Lawrence Seaway, to visit his aunt Alice. And those were just a few of the many rides we enjoyed together which you can read about on this blog.

However, it has been at least a couple of years, maybe three, since Francis and I have gone riding together. Even back then, I could see some subtle signs that age was creeping up on him. When I first met him in 2015 (you can read a 2015 post dedicated to him elsewhere on this blog), he always led the way on our rides — for at that time he was the experienced rider, and I was the neophyte; and I think he took some pride in knowing that he was helping a new rider learn to safely navigate the roads. But on our last few rides, he preferred to follow me; and there was more than one occasion where, stopped at an intersection on a regular route, he would question where we were, and how to get home.

Not long after that, he informed me that the doctor had suspended his driver’s license. When I asked him why, he said he wasn’t sure, but he thought it had something to do with him losing his way a couple of times, such that his family saw fit to take him to the doctor about it. And then the doctor pulled his license.

After that, I made an effort to take him out to breakfast now and again, which he always seemed to enjoy, until one such outing when he could not find his keys before we left his house. He was extremely agitated about this and could talk of nothing else during breakfast. When we got back to his house, I helped him search for the keys; we looked in all the usual places, and then the less usual, and then the decidedly unusual, which is when he found them — resting in a cupboard which he almost never used. And he could not remember putting them there.

The next several times I called him for breakfast, I got no answer. Finally, upon driving past his road one day, I saw one of his neighbors outside and drove up his road to inquire after his situation. Come to find out that his daughter had moved him to Clover Manor in Auburn, to the memory care unit. When I first visited him there, he was angry about it; he thought that she had over-reacted to his simply forgetting a few things. But nevertheless, he seemed happy enough there; he even introduced me to his new girlfriend (another resident), with whom he seemed quite taken (his beloved wife Lorraine having died a couple of years before).

And here’s where I failed Francis, although even then I’m not sure he really knew who I was anymore. But I promised him a couple of times on such visits that I would take him out to breakfast again — but, what with one thing and another, I never did; I never got around to it. And then came his obituary, which I never saw coming because I never followed up on my promise to him.

Francis Eugene Duguay was born in 1944 and was always, I believe, a simple man. He never finished high school, but worked his entire life, first for the city of Auburn driving recycling trucks and snowplows, and then at the town dump in Greene, where he would always assist patrons in unloading their trash and sorting it into the proper bins. He loved to ride his scooter, a bright red Aprilia Scarabeo 200, and was broken-hearted when he had to sell it, after his license was pulled.

But the really remarkable thing about Francis, I think, is the joy with which he approached every moment of his life. Unencumbered by philosophy or academics, he knew how to be happy in every situation, and he knew how to recognize the joy that life can bring us through all the various people and experiences and moments which cross our path. And this is a gift so simple that most of us never see it.

As an example of this, Francis loved to go 45mph on his scooter. It mattered nothing to him what the posted speed limit was — he loved to go 45! And so, 45 is what he went, and if a line of vehicles piled up behind him, he pulled over and let them go by, again and again, no matter how many times he had to do it. This is, of course, unless rain threatened. In that case, he’d go 65 to get home as soon as he could, because he hated riding in the rain. You see, he had the rare ability to fully immerse himself in whatever he was doing, without being distracted by anything else. Consequently I knew, if I planned a ride with Francis, that there would be no agenda, no clock, no constraints — if he felt like stopping, he stopped; if he wanted a coffee, he found a McDonald’s and got one; and we got home whenever the heck we got home, the clock — and Chronos — be damned. Because Francis knew how to live fully in each and every moment.

And after Robin died, Francis was one of my steadiest friends. He sang in the local Baptist church choir, which rehearsed every Wednesday, after which he would without fail stop at my house to check on me. On one such occasion, he gave me some of the best advice I ever received about grief. “Look”, he said, “she was a good woman, so she’s with God now, so she’s happy. So you should be happy, go have fun, ride your scooter!”. All the doctors and counselors I’ve seen since have yet to match this simple and sage advice.

Francis died on March 18, 2024, at 79 years of age, leaving behind three children, five grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, several nieces and nephews, and his beloved cat Bandit. His funeral was extraordinarily well-attended, because this simple, genuine and sincere man made friends everywhere he went, each of them drawn to the joy with which he experienced every precious moment, radiating it through all of his days. In this he was an inspiration, and I hope to find some more of that perspective in however many days are left to me. He was a great friend, and I will miss him dearly. I can offer no better tribute to him than to repeat for you his simple wisdom, one last time: trust God, have fun and be happy. May we all find the Spirit to do exactly that. Rest in peace, Francis — and thanks so much for everything.