How's your boy?

I covered the dediction of Helpmate's new building this afternoon. It's a domestic violence shelter and services center, and it was three years in the making.

My friend Val is the executive director and she shepherded this thing through from the idea that the shelter, services and administrative offices should be in one place through finding the former convent, renovating it, raising the money to pay for it and finally opening it.

She had a lot of help, but I spent many a lunchtime or dinnertime with her as she practically tore her hair out over the details.

I ran into a few people I haven't seen in awhile and who didn't know Michael died.

"How's your boy?"

"Um ... he died."

People don't know how to react to that. Most just hug me and tell me they're sorry. That's a good reaction. There's nothing else you can say.

I got an e-mail from Patty Wiley today. She's one of the Jersey gang, married to John Wiley, one of Rob's olsdest friends. It was so heartfelt and sweet. She wanted to be sure we had all the support we need here and tell us again that we're loved by the whole gang in New Jersey.

This is a group of friends who've known each other since fourth or fifth grade. They hung out together all through high school, played softball together until the aches and pains (and losses) got to be no fun anymore. They vacationed together and have stayed together through everything their lives could dish out.

We lost George 10 years ago, when his only child, Anna Marie, was just 4 months old, and Margaret and Anna Marie still come to visit us a couple times a year. I think sh thinks of us as extended family. We certainly have a lot of fun together, especially with Rubber Duckie in the hot tub.

As the boys became men and each of them married, the women became part of the family. We've been through the births of children, their growing up, and now their weddings.

I'm the first to lose a child, and they all knew Michael like one of their own. We are as much a family as any blood-related people. Even if we don't talk for weeks or months, the affection is there.

I go up twice a year to see everyone -- once in January and once in July. Rob doesn't come on the January trip because I don't take off a full week and it's too much time in the car for him.

But while we're there, Bruce McKeown makes reservations at Lu Ca's and we all go out to dinner. They usually put us in a closed room because there's 16 to 20 of us and we get really loud. The kids come too, even though they're all grown now and they don't have to. That's because we're family.

Jokes never get old with this group. Craig opens the menu and asks, "Shall I order for everyone?" Never fails. If he's behind you in traffic and the light turns green, he's on the horn instantly.

If we're together during the winter, Fran will build a snowman, and it's always anatomically correct. I have pictures somewhere of Mike helping her with one, and of Mike playing poker with her. Big mistake.

Bruce will try to get Fran, his wife, and Katie, his daughter, to order menu items he wants to try. He's tried to talk me into it a couple times, but I order what I want, and if it's something he wants to try, he can have a taste.

We all have long, long memories, and we love to recount the moments when people embarrassed themselves -- like the time Bruce had too much fun the first day of vacation and missed most of the second day. A hangover is still known as the Bruce flu more than 20 years later. Some of my best memories come from being with this group of people.

So, when Patty says she grieves with me, I feel a little less alone.