It's clearly the most stressful time in a family's existence.

A loved one has died, or is near death, and among the myriad of details, an obituary must be prepared.

It's tough, even for those of us who use words every day. Sometimes, it's tougher for us.

Writing about my dad's illness was therapeutic for me, but not everyone can do that.

My mom allowed me to write his obituary, which she then went over meticulously.

Yet still, she was upset that some extended family was left out.

So this brings me to no matter how much a family tries, they just can't get it all in an obituary.

They can't get the humor, or pattern of speech, or downright goodness. Or the way he lit up a room - any room - when he walked in.

This greatest guy on earth died last week and his funeral was yesterday.

Everybody knew him. I know of no one who didn't adore him.

His name was Pearley Wells and he owned Bush Wells Sporting Goods in downtown Casper for a quarter century.

His son, Pearley Wells III, now owns the business. The elder Pearley and his wife of now 47 years, Lillian, sold out "the day they put in the first computer."

More than dispensing jockstraps and high-priced fancy shoes, Pearley was a classic human being.

He had a headful of bright white hair for as long as I knew him.

His daughter was my college roommate. Probably 'nuf said right there, but there's more. Much more.

We made lots and lots of trips to Casper from UW, always with the largest size bag of nacho cheese-flavored Doritos between us.

When I got the big "first job" and needed a place to live in Casper, I came here with Abbe to look for an apartment. As we always did, we stayed with her folks in their great house on the corner of 13th and Beech.

I remember her dad trying to fix us breakfast in the morning when all we cared about was coffee - black - and lots of it.

Applying makeup, drinking coffee and giggling was therapy for Abbe and me. I'm sure beyond a doubt that we both turned from college girls to women in that bathroom on Beech Street.

Every time I see a grapefruit, I think of her dad broiling grapefruit halves with brown sugar and maraschino cherries for us for breakfast. There'd be just a slight hint of his aftershave from his hands mixed with the citrus flavor.

He and Fritz the Dad shared the same birthday - July 15. He used to tell me that only great people were born that day and I always agreed with him.

When I got my first tiny one-bedroom apartment here, it was furnished with a brand-new bed from my parents, a card table and a couple of chairs, and furniture from Pearley's family room - some kind of wicker with Polynesian lime green flowered cushions.

"Might as well take it," he said. "Never have liked it."

I remember him with a giant fat brown cigar in his mouth but don't ever remember them being lit.

After Abbe graduated from UW and came back to Casper to work at the store, we again were roommates - two single gals with great jobs in a brand-new, two-bedroom apartment in Paradise Valley. It was a palace but the definite selling point was the bathroom with two sinks. The little subdivision has never been the same.

We bought wine by the case (Riunite) and clothes by the closetful.

And my folks were much happier about my singleness, knowing that Pearley and Lillian would be there in a second if I needed them.

Pearley even talked me into playing slowpitch softball with Abbe on the team he sponsored, with the persuasion, "You'll have the best uniforms in the league."

I still have the socks and laugh every time I put them on.

"These are my Bush Wells socks," I say, showing off the knee-high white tube socks with shocking blue, red and white elastic at the top. They're perfect with my jeans and boots and they're more than 20 years old.

When a wedding occurred, Abbe of course was my maid of honor. And the nervous bride dressed for the big occasion at Pearley and Lillian's, where I felt so much at home.

After he retired and moved to Phoenix and Fritz the Dad hooked on with the woeful Cardinals, Pearley would tape - and mail me - every one of their games, which were never shown in Casper.

"Gives me something to do," he said when I tried to thank him.

He was a real friend of senators and governors, Class 1A (tiny school) basketball coaches and every coffee shop and saloon owner from Casper to Phoenix and back again.

The last time I saw him was, fittingly, at the Virginian Hotel in Medicine Bow on a Saturday morning in the fall of 2001. We had stopped for our traditional potty break on the way to Laramie and there he came through the front door, white hair and unlit cigar, a little more stooped but still the same Pearley.

"There's my other daughter," he boomed to the packed place in that Southern accent that belied his Illinois birth and decades of Wyoming life.

The world has plenty of jockstraps, but not nearly enough Pearleys.

Rest easy, buddy. There's no prairie gold where you are.