Ron Hixon passed away November 2014.

Mark Gladstone wrote this very fitting tribute to Ron.

Our Cub Scout troop. I'm on the top row, second from the left. Ronnie is on the bottom row, farthest to the right.

When I was young, my best friend Ron lived two doors down. We must have been seven or eight when we saw a TV show about Native Americans -- not that anyone called them Native Americans in the '50s. We decided to imitate the heroes of the show, to become blood brothers.
It was especially momentous for Ronnie. He was a stout-framed kid, but the mere thought of blood brought him to the point of tears. He wanted to do it anyway.
It was a way to bridge the gap between us. We lived in the same new-ish California suburb, but we came from different backgrounds. My parents' house was filled with books; I don't remember any in his. I loved the bologna sandwiches on white bread his mother made. Years later, I found out he loved the wheat bread my mother used because he never got it at home.
His mother, a sweet-faced lady, drove us to the quarter matinees, miniature golf and bowling. Our dads took us to Indian Guides meetings. Somehow that made the idea of being blood brothers all the sweeter.
But it was our secret. We pricked our fingers and, for a moment, held them bleeding against each other.
 Our Cub Scout troop. I'm on the top row, second from the left. Ronnie is on the bottom row, farthest to the right.
I doubt that we exchanged much blood. But it mattered. From that moment we were, in fact, blood brothers — just like on TV.
We were constant pals, mostly getting into trouble together: rock fights, breaking into our neighbor's garage to look at nudist magazines and, later, smoking Hav-A-Tampa cigars in the back of my folks' Ford station wagon.
His father once held both of us up against a wall by the scruffs of our necks, leaving us to squirm as he grilled us about one of our pranks.
Ron had many talents. He was a legendary home run hitter, a musician (he had a memory for song lyrics) and, I'd heard, had an IQ over 150. But his parents weren't like mine, not the kind who urge children to develop their talents. And besides, Ron preferred watching the Tonight Show to doing homework. He barely finished high school.
We saw each other less and less, but the blood bond remained intact. Ron became a highly skilled machinist in the heyday of the Southern California aerospace industry and was recruited by Lockheed and other companies. He loved to fish and work on cars. As time passed, when we golfed, he couldn't walk the course but had to ride in a cart.
In the last few years, he lived alone. And alone is how Ronald Eugene Hixon died: alone in a crowded mobile home in rural Missouri, suffering from cancer and other ailments. He was 66.
I heard about his death just this week, and I can't stop thinking about him. I'd like to believe that his blood is still in my veins. He was the only kind of brother I've known.
Mark Gladstone
Asst. City Editor, Houston Chronicle