I first met Scott during medical school orientation. I suspect that “Mader” and “Onusko” were close enough together in the alphabet that we ended up next to each other in line at registration at some point. Scott of course was an instantly likeable guy and despite our background differences, we hit it off and chose to become lab partners for our first two years of medical school. I was pretty much a city guy from the west side of Cleveland, and at times I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Scott. He almost immediately taught me several things that I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you could eat a whole apple – fruit, then core, then the stem (after using it as a toothpick to get the last bit of core out from between your teeth). I didn’t know that if your lab partner had an intermittent protrusion of his lower lip, it wasn’t from an IgE-mediated allergic edema – it was from the snuff he put in there before class. I didn’t know that you could gnaw on a round steak bone until you’d worked a hole through the marrow that you could see through. I have no doubt, as I look back on those experiences today, that Scott probably was quietly amused at my reactions as he taught me these lessons. But Scott taught me another lesson during my first year of med school that he knew better than any other student in our class: that life was grand, and interesting, and fun, and challenging; and was meant to be explored and enjoyed. I would come to our lab sessions having read through the experiment 3 times the night before, and highlighted the handouts and experiment instructions in 3 different colors. Scott would arrive with his viola poking out of his backpack, rummage through it and find his lab book, and ask me “What experiment are we doing today?” Make no mistake - Scott worked very hard during med school, and he did very well academically. But he didn’t approach his studies like they were a series of chores or obstacles that he had to endure. He simply was eager to learn. He was naturally curious about how things worked, and how they might get tinkered with and fixed when they weren’t working so well. Toward the end of our first year, Scott asked me what my plans were for the summer. I was ready for that question (though I hadn’t highlighted it in 3 colors.). “I’d like to come to Oregon and work on your farm.” So of course Scott and his family graciously hosted me at their grass seed farm in central Oregon that summer. I recall that my flight got into Portland late at night, and that first morning at the house I slept in late. When I came downstairs I was greeted by a table full of eggs, pancakes, biscuits, sausage, bacon, etc. Scott’s mom Jackie introduced herself and explained that the guys were out doing some chores already. I was pretty hungry, especially experiencing the aroma of that breakfast, and asked when the other four people would join us for breakfast. “Oh, we’ve already all eaten” said Jackie. “This food is all just for you.” I decided that I was probably going to enjoy my stay at Mader Farms. Scott taught me the job of running “the cleaner”, this insane Rube Goldberg contraption. The harvested seed went in one end of it, passed through a maze of blowers, sieves, etc., and came out the other end with the impurities separated out. It had many levers, switches and parts that had been patched up with baling wire dozens of times over the clearly many years that this ancient device had been in use. On my last night at the farm Scott, Jackie and Howard presented me with a handmade but very official-looking diploma from the Mader School of Seed Cleaning Technology – signed by Supervisor Scott Mader and “Big Boss” Howard Mader – verifying that, among others things, I had “saved the farm” – a term that Scott and I would recall for many years afterward. I of course still have the certificate today. In my private rural practice days I had it on the wall next to my medical diplomas and certificates, and occasionally a sharp-eyed patient or pharmaceutical rep would ask me about it. But the ink faded a bit over time, so I’ve retired it to my memory box in the basement. I’m sure that my 2 week stay on Mader Farms was in early July, because I remember attending a 4th of July cookout that the Maders hosted for their neighbors. It was a barbeque and this city boy really enjoyed the beautiful outdoor setting, and I really enjoyed meeting their neighbors. I was particularly intrigued when, as was apparently the custom for gatherings like this, the men got out shotguns and rifles and … well … started shooting at stuff. They’d put a bottle or a can or a melon on a tree trunk or a fence post and take turns blasting it. It was great fun. The view from the farmyard was spectacular and after a while you could smell the gunpowder. I was soaking it all in. After all the other guys had shot, they hospitably tried to hand a shotgun to me and called for “Ed from Cleveland” to take my turn. I smiled and threw up my hands, explaining “No thanks. I’ve never shot a gun before in my life.” Much to my surprise, a stunned silence came over the previously lively group of men standing on a hilltop on a grass seed farm in the Willamette (rhymes with “damn-it” – I still remember that) Valley of Oregon. I immediately felt as if I’d suddenly announced that I was not only fond of transgender terrorists from the Middle East – who were also registered Democrats – but that as a matter of fact I was actually married to one. The guys then suddenly recovered from their shock and enthusiastically cheered me on to rectify this blatant deficit in my character of never having discharged a firearm. So they gave me the shotgun, pointed me in the direction of the target atop a tree trunk, (no point in having Ed from Cleveland ruining a good fencepost), and wisely retreated to a safe distance behind me. I was not keen about firing a shotgun, but I didn’t want to offend my gracious hosts, so I decided to get it over with. I swung the shotgun up to a horizontal position and pointed it in the general direction of the target. I was given verbal instructions from someone behind me on how to take the safety off, which I did, and was ready to blast away. Just then, however, someone noticed that in my distaste for using this weapon, I was holding it in such a way that the butt of the shotgun was about 8 inches away from my body. I didn’t realize that if I fired, the shotgun would recoil and probably break my collarbone. So suddenly all of the guys behind me started clamoring and urgently calling my name – “Ed from Cleveland! Ed from Cleveland!” I of course had no idea what was wrong, so I immediately swung around - shotgun still horizontal - to see what the fuss was all about. Instantly, 20-30 hearty Oregon farmers hit the dirt, their John Deere ball caps fluttering down to meet them on the ground a few seconds later. A group of guys safely to my far left then shouted in panic – so I swung toward them – then a group to my far right – ditto for my response to them also. Pretty much everybody was on the ground at that point, hands covering their heads – and I still had no idea why. Only one of their number remained erect – Scott, grinning at me with great amusement – somehow trusting that “Ed-O” (the name that he always called me) most likely had just enough sense not to shoot someone that fine July afternoon - and as he would demonstrate so clearly in the last chapters of his life – that each day was meant to be lived to the fullest, and should not be diminished by a concern that our days on this earth must someday end for each one of us. And I eventually did fire the shotgun. No lives were lost. Later during med school, I one day was inspired to wonder what might happen if the “immovable object” that was Scott Mader met the “irresistible force” of a dear grade school friend of mine, Maureen O’Malley. Maureen was a very smart, talented, formidable, lovely, Irish (ya think?) West-Sider, who immediately captured Scott’s attention when I introduced them. After their first date, when I asked Scott why he seemed so smitten with Mo, he truthfully replied, “Because I had to hustle to eat half of the pizza we ordered before it was gone”. (True story – I swear!) The irresistible force had overcome. The rest, as they say, is history. Eventually Scott on viola, I on guitar, and a guy on mandolin/guitar/accordion (an instrument that Scott would one day take up) player would be performing “Down On Mader Farms” (a song I wrote) at Scott and Mo’s wedding rehearsal dinner. Years later I would have the privilege of Scott playing viola with some of my Ohio friends at my wedding. I have many other memories of Scott from our med school days, but one brief one stands out to me today. We were both on call one night at University Hospitals in Cleveland and we happened to bump into each other in the middle of the night in the hallway outside the radiology department. “Hey Ed-O” he called to me at 3 AM, cheery as always. He was pushing a gurney with a very old, frail, scared-looking lady into the x-ray department. He enthusiastically introduced us, like he was fully confident that we’d hit it off and that we’d all be best friends right on the spot. “This is my patient, Mrs. So-and-so. Doesn’t she have a great hat?” She was indeed wearing a hat, which in itself was a bit unusual for an inpatient going down for an emergency x-ray in the middle of the night. I remember the hat being roughly rectangular in shape, much too small for her head, kind of lost in the middle of a mop of gray hair. It was flowery in a tacky way and I definitely recall that it was pretty ugly. But Scott beamed when he said, “And here’s what’s really great about it”. He then proceeded to pull the hat up off her head, revealing that it was attached under her chin by a thin elastic strap, like a cone-shaped birthday hat might be. Pausing for a few seconds for dramatic effect, he then released the hat – and it popped back into place in the tangle at the top of her head. Suddenly the fear left her face, and she grinned at me – I grinned back – Scott grinned wider – and darn if we weren’t all best friends right on the spot. I had to run – and the whole encounter only took a few seconds – but it was a great example of the kind of doctor that Scott would someday become in a career devoted to caring for the vulnerable elderly. It’s funny how Scott the country boy ended up living and working in Portland, teaching at an academic geriatrics program and doing bench research in geriatrics. I’m sure that when his new students showed up with their assignments highlighted in 3 different colors, he knew he had his work cut out for him in teaching them what being a doctor was really all about. I as a city boy ended up practicing in rural southern Ohio and eventually teaching Family Medicine at a small town residency program. I guess somehow we rubbed off on each other. Scott had a way of doing that with people, and we all will still carry a part of him with us. I’m certain that I became a better doctor because of my friendship with Scott, because of his example to me in med school and afterward of finding balance between work and all the other experiences that life has to offer. Even during his prolonged battle with cancer, Scott seemed always to maintain that balance. He never seemed to express it to me as a “battle” with cancer – though I’m sure it was to those who were at his side with him during those years. But when we would speak, usually from a far geographic distance, it was more like an “encounter” that Scott was having with his illness. He was never bitter. I never once heard him complain. He would only occasionally let it slip out that he was suffering from side effects, like neuropathy (numbness and pain). He just experienced it all gracefully. Scott’s extended illness clearly made him love and appreciate his family and friends more than ever. Maureen and family – may God bless you and comfort you during this time of grieving. I’m sure you know that Scott loved each one of you so much. He was so proud of each one of you and would always update me on your accomplishments and activities. He also knew with absolute certainty that you loved him. I know that Scott believed that there was a life ahead for him after this one. Having been called home to his Father, I pray that he is being embraced in the loving arms of his Creator, who has taken away all illness and discomfort that he has ever known. May God love on you every day in heaven, my dear friend. Keep your viola tuned up – through God’s grace and the saving sacrifice of Jesus Christ, I pray that I’ll some day join you. "Rest in peace" just does not describe your new life. "Have a ball in your new adventure" fits much better. With love, Ed Onusko “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” John 10:10 “For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16 “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life.” 1 John 5:13