....and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away."

I spoke to Mike Henshaw last Friday morning. A month before, he'd been hospitalized in Florida with pneumonia. I asked him if he was okay to work, and he gruffly pointed out some astronomical number of felonies they'd already filed this year and that there was too much to do to NOT get back to work.

Three years ago, sitting out back by his pool and the Tiki Bar, we hit upon the idea - following a couple of years in the same spot of being regaled with stories of his youth and subsequent career - that I should write a book about him, an authorized biography. The stuff he told us was just too fascinating to not chronicle. It was our goal to sit down through the months of August and September 2014 and, with a digital audio tape (DAT) recorder, get all of it in listenable format so that while we were on vacation that year for the month of October, I could get to work on it. Sabotaged from the inside as we were that Fall, it didn't happen. Having been busy the past three years dealing with the aftereffects of the sabotage, we didn't have time. I thought about going ahead and picking up that DAT on Monday of this week, but with one kid rescuing kittens and another advancing in his career and needing some assistance with his family, I've been pulled in many directions this week...and Mike's wasn't one of those. But last Friday he said he wanted us over this coming weekend (we'd not seen him in several weeks) and I figured maybe I'd take up the subject again.

Last night as I was turning in, I went to shut off my phone and something said "Nah, don't." So I turned it as low as it would go. As I was beginning my nightly prayer, a text came in at 10:41, and I put God on hold. I reached over to read the text, thinking it was Jack, who was in Harrisburg (I'm at the farm up north, assisting the kids in their endeavors) and it wasn't; it was one of our sources who's a "scanner listener" who apprises us of goings-on in Harrisburg. Her text was simple: "911 call to Michael Henshaw house. Unresponsive male. Called coroner."

I told her "ok" and in less than 10 seconds had Jack on the phone; barely able to talk, I shouted at him to run up to Henshaw's house and tell me it was someone else, ANYONE ELSE, but Mike Henshaw on whom the coroner call was based. And I got back to God, but it didn't matter, because Mike by that time was already gone.

Jack was supposed to stay in Harrisburg last night and I was to come back down there tomorrow so we could go see Mike and Lavon. Instead, after his run-in with Chief Morris, he came straight back to the farm because I couldn't drive back and I couldn't be here alone.

Before he got here, my phone was ringing off the hook. Barely able to talk, I just listened and told each caller what I knew. When Jack got here, I had him turn off the phone; I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't listen or talk, I couldn't stand to hear the ringing. When we got up this morning and turned it back on, it rang more. Some I answered, some I did not. To tell you the truth, my heart couldn't take it. I've never heard so many grown men crying in one 12-hour period of time in my life and I hope to never have to hear such a thing again. It is gut-wrenching.

When we first came into contact with Mike Henshaw, he didn't like us. We didn't care; we just had a job to do and if he wasn't going to be part of it in one form, he'd be part of it in another (actually, a hard lesson some out there fail to learn.) Mike loved telling about how he and Jack batted each other's opinions of each other around then finally came to terms with something: When a person speaks the truth consistently, and you learn that it's just the way that person speaks and it's not done for show or for an agenda or with some ulterior motive in mind, that's just how they ARE, you know you've actually found a friend. And that's what we became, seven years ago. And so our forays to poolside or fireside depending on the time of year were a source of comfort. It's nice knowing there's a secluded place you can go where everybody just speaks the truth and nobody has to "watch what they're saying" or put on airs or try to figure out what someone's agenda is. It was a no-pretenses thing. You don't find that in this world very often.

Back in December we went for a nice dinner and couldn't stay late because the weather was too cold and we have to mind the farm when that happens so the pipes don't freeze. Mike was all out of sorts with it because he wanted to play the piano and sing. That's something we've done on and off for years. He plays, I sing. It could get entertaining from time to time.

When the most recent election was about to happen and campaigning was underway (and we were out of state on vacation, so we didn't have to deal with ANY of that...), Assistant State's Attorney Jayson Clark posted this pic on the Henshaw for State's Attorney Facebook page. This is a familiar scene to us. He could play pretty much anything, if you put the sheet music in front of him (with some boogie-woogie and impromptu jazz-type stuff, though, he didn't need sheet music; he, like I do, played that by ear). A few years back, I told him about my work doing piano bar 30-plus years ago, and it so happened that we knew and performed a lot of the same songs. The one I needed to find sheet music to, we agreed, was one of my "signature songs," "That Lucky Ol Sun."

Like the DAT recordings, I didn't get around to it.

Please forgive us if the posts slow down for the next few days; we have a lot to do. The next issue is April 4, the day of the election. We'll be covering the biggest events in the area leading up to it. But like in the song, we're tired. Mike's death has made us more tired, because we know that this is our eventuality until God steps in and takes it away. Newspapering is a hard job. You have to have a lot of heart to keep going.

And a lot of our heart died last night.

So bear with us. We'll meet this challenge just like all the others.

Song's at the bottom of the post. Give it a listen.

Good bye, Grampy Mike. We love you...and we WILL see you again.