Growing up in Seattle, one of my best friends was a kid by the name of Tim Sherman. He was bright and funny, far smarter than I. We went through 12 years of Catholic school together. We were altar boys in grade school. We took Latin in high school. We partied in college.  

He was there when a nun clobbered my head with a book because I had lost my place during a reading session in first grade. 

He was there when Sister Vincent berated me for my complete and utter inability to translate Latin to English and English to Latin. 

We spent hours on Friday afternoons searching for Beatles records in the University District, a time when used record stores were on every block.

He wrote a feature story about my 1968 Firebird that was printed in the Blanchet High School newspaper as car of the month that almost made me famous. 

He was an usher when my wife and I were married 41 years ago.

But, as often happens, our paths took us to different parts of the world and we drifted apart. We lost touch and decades passed without words. 

My best friend, Mike McLean, though, kept tabs on Sherman and his music career. A blues guitarist, he formed The Tim Sherman Band and performed with bands around the Pacific Northwest for three decades. He is an award-winning guitarist.

Mike mentioned Tim was playing last weekend at a brewery in Snohomish. A road trip, we decided, was in order.  

After a drive of roughly 300 miles, we arrived to hear music drifting into the night air. We walked in and there, on stage, was my old pal Tim Sherman, still young and energetic, but even more talented than I knew. 

I’m not a musician, but this I know: The man can make a guitar sing. The notes rose from the guitar in his hands, filling the room and mesmerizing a small crowd. When the spotlight fell to him for a solo, he was brilliant. I was blown away at his ability. I knew he was good. I didn’t know he was this good.  

During a break after the first set, Mike and I walked up behind Tim, waiting to see if he would recognize us. He turned and looked at me. 

“Bill!” 

Then, “Mike!” 

We hugged and talked for a few minutes, laughing just like old times. 

I told him he looked great and hadn’t aged. 

"You're still so young," I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re making me feel good.” 

Tim and his band played for another 45 minutes or so. Mike and I had a front-row seat to one of the best blues performances I had ever seen. I don’t even like blues, but I liked Tim Sherman’s blues. He was better at the guitar than I was at anything. It took work, belief, sacrifice, dedication and desire. He had them all. 

Those of us in the audience that night were the beneficiaries of his talent, which I envied.

“How is this guy not famous?” I said to Mike. 

Tim’s older brother, Joe, happened to be there. He said Tim had opportunities to go elsewhere and try to strike up a bigger music career on the national stage but declined. He enjoyed life too much in the Seattle area with his wife and teaching music and wasn’t about to seek fame and fortune elsewhere. 

I'm not surprised. He was always humble. He knew what he wanted. He was at peace with himself, something I have never known.

When the band finished its final song, Tim had to hurry to catch a ferry back to Whidbey Island, where he lives, so we only chatted for a few more minutes as we helped carry his gear to his car. But for those few minutes, it felt like no years had passed at all, like we were back in school, good friends once more.

Perhaps one day, if life stays out of the way, we will be.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].