Moments in Time

I just watched the memorial service for an exceptional man. 

Had I known of his passing, I would have been there in person because he was an absolute gift of a human.

I met Phil Collum soon after I started my time at SCPD. Shenanigans, late nights, lots of dancing, solid conversations and friendship. He was genuine and sincere and I was so grateful for his presence in the constantly changing landscape of my life. 

I will never forget the time I was out of town (before cell phones!) and he stopped by and was freaked out by the moving boxes in the dining area of my apartment. I came back home and explained I was fine and just a super lazy unpacker. He was equally relieved and annoyed. 

Soon after, he moved back home to the San Diego area. I’m so sorry we lost touch. I thought of him often over the years.

I now know he went on to change the landscape of law enforcement in Chula Vista and beyond with his smile, love of all people, dedication to service, and I have to believe, dance moves.

There is an orphanage in Mexico that would not be the same without him. He visited every month, in the same selfless way he approached everything else in his life. If you are inclined, check out https://www.corazondevida.org/.

Not many people on this planet are consumed with the desire to make things better. I am so honored to have known a small piece of Phil and am challenged to follow his moves. 

Even right up until the end, he was earning awards and changing lives. And his community LOVED him.

Well, my dancing partner, it seems there are just some people that are too perfect to be earthside for long. 

Phillip, I will miss you being here.

If you have the time, his memorial service can be viewed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ont6yE62GFA

It is worth the watch. 

Oh, Matty

 Now that your chosen family has all publicly shared remembrances in your honor, I thought I’d post my own. 

I hope you don’t mind me using your nickname. You mentioned in your memoir that your friends all call you Matty and as you ‘lived’ in my house for ten years, in a weird way I feel qualified to use it.

Without exception, every Thursday night, I raced home to hang out with you. And all our other friends. I nearly didn’t sign up for a grad school class because it was only offered Thursday nights…I created a pros and cons list and everything. 

School won, by the way, but only barely. Primarily because I found out you could program a VCR.

I quickly realized this was not ideal because even if you figured out how to set it correctly, it invariably missed the opener or cut off the ending scene as credits rolled. There may have been yelling involved. 

You’ll be happy to know I eventually just set the dang thing to record EVERYTHING on Thursday night because ER came on at 10 and I wasn’t missing that either.

I’ve followed you all these years, the great stuff, the not-so-good bits, all of it. You were always our favorite friend yet we had no idea the darkness and depth of your battles. It seems so unfair you left when you did - more peaceful, rebuilding yourself, and dedicated to giving back in immeasurable ways.

Maybe when you met God in your kitchen, he truly guided the rest of your way on earth. Maybe you leaving us now could actually be his way of acknowledging your earthly struggle, alleviating your pain, and honoring your  hard-won personal growth.

I don’t know how all that works. I just know I’m so sad.

The accolades are endless, such incredible memories from all the wonderful people who knew you in person. Your generosity, unparalleled wit, kindness, impeccable timing, gift of encouragement. Your sense of humor and way with words remain unmatched. 

You should also know there are literally millions of us who have loved you from afar for decades. 

Even if you never did “Friends” and were celebrated globally, you’ve left behind a giant space in humankind. One that we’re not sure how to fill. And every last one of us is heartbroken. I only wish you could have felt that while still here. I hope you can now.

To honor your request of remembrance, we’ll focus on the direct impact you’ve had on addiction awareness, treatment, and recovery. Along with the countless people you’ve helped in your time here. We’ll take that forward in your name, Mattman.

You did it. In only 54 years. You lived well, you loved well, and you were a seeker. 

You also helped me understand my daddy better. Because of your brutal bravery in sharing your struggles, it offered me a different way to see him. And a softer, more empathetic place to view his own passing. I am forever grateful for that too.

I hope you’ll allow me to say this one tiny thing - for me - in memory of all our years ‘together’… 

Could you BE any more missed?

Sometimes I Get Angry

 My daddy's birthday was yesterday.

I watch friends congratulate their dads on significant birthdays.

I see them post photos of weddings and christenings. And whatever the heck else ever they are celebrating. 

I try to be cool. And happy for them.

There are beautiful birth stories with Grandads meeting the newborn.

Weddings.

Graduations.

Random Tuesdays where everyone meets up for pizza. Or tacos.

I do enjoy witnessing these friends and extended family gatherings. Knowing there are people who carved through the yuck to get to the good.

Also — It pisses me off.

My family never really got there. To the other side. We had it in moments…but never truly for real.

So what do I rage against? 

Addiction? That seems easy and not even a little bit satisfying. It’s like being angry at cancer. 

Which also is valid. But I digress.

Be angry at my dad? That is there too, but hurts my heart and the essence of what I know to be me so I can't hold that.

So what?  Where do I direct the searing loss of those moments?

Maybe it’s reaching out with open arms to what I have here now.

Figuring out how to incorporate the love I have known and live with here now into the memories of ‘what could have been.’

Still waiting on that complete answer.

I remember my dad talking about how he felt when his uncles and aunts got older. The urgency to connect or re-connect. How it felt when they transitioned/changed addresses/left this earth. I wish I’d have paid closer attention to that navigation process.

John Blakeley made that big move several days ago. Growing up as his niece, he seemed larger than life so this one makes me wish I had a map to follow because I just feel lost.

My Uncle John gave the best bear hugs. NO, HE DID. I will stand firm on this hill. He’d say, “Ready?” And you knew to suck in some air and hold it because your ribs were about to meet your spine. He’d wrap his arms around you and hug you as tight as you’ve ever been hugged. And you’d giggle and squirm and feel so loved.

His son, my cousin Aaron, does this too. At Rick Baldwin’s memorial service this last spring, I saw AJ and went over to give him a hug. He said, “Ready?” 

Oh yes.

Uncle John had a wicked sense of humor. (He’d not be pleased I described it that way!) If you found yourself in a car with him you’d better protect your knees because at the most unexpected moment, he’d reach over and clamp his hand on the ‘funny bone’ of your knee. 

I do not know of another way to describe it…but it was both hilarious and crazy-making at the same moment. 

He will forever hold the title of Master of Efficiency in my book. From the way he walked, to washing his car at the crack of dawn, to a 20 minute (all encompassing) sermon, to vocally speeding up a hymn he felt was lagging - he did not drag things out just to belabor a point. He was way beyond his time in the ‘this meeting should have been an email’ group.

As much as I say my dad could have been a cowboy, I can equally assert Uncle John could have been a pioneer. Grit, determination, stubbornness, focus on a bigger picture - he had all that. 

He is resting now. A well-deserved, beautiful, complete rest. And to him, I love you the most, no matter what you say.

In Memoriam

 

(The above photo is from our 1995 SCPD Christmas Party. Lola reposted it a couple days ago before she left us. She's the tiny, non-smiling blonde in the back row. Yes, I was wearing heels.)

If you are fortunate, you encounter giants in this life. They are not always large in stature, some are small and feisty and take zero grief from anyone.

If you are really lucky, you will find a personal giant. That giant will come equipped with a fire and determination to drag you into the best iteration of yourself you can be. Usually despite your best efforts otherwise. 

Giants accept no excuses because they’ve lived it. Done it. Handled it all. They only know to create a way forward when the rest of us are still scattered. Their impact is felt in the moment and far, far beyond.

I don’t know that I can ever encapsulate this particular giant of mine with mere words but I need to try…

When I left SCPD dispatch - in the midst of our local police department joining with the county and becoming Netcom -  I wrote something for Lola and had it framed to commemorate the significance of my time with her. When I gave her what I’d written, she teared up. Then was immediately annoyed because she never made me cry in training. (That she knew of.)

She challenged my naive 20-something self to be so much more than a job. In enumerable ways, she taught me about life. To show up and do your best. That excuses are for the unprepared. How to be generous with people but give no quarter. (She would totally use other words there.) And above all else - do the right thing. If only because it is the right thing.

She demanded these things in no uncertain terms.

I loved working for her. Even when I got in trouble for not knowing where an overpass was in a verbal pop quiz. Thank you Mike Pruger for graciously accepting the spur-of-the-moment patrol ride along. Driving me to said overpass and waiting while I walked across it as instructed. Despite the fact that when you went in service you announced over the radio there was a “banished dispatcher” with you.

PS I’m also pretty sure that was the night I saved your sunglasses as they slid across the dash towards my open window during a pursuit. You’re welcome.

Personal calls were not allowed in dispatch because all lines were recorded and potentially could be material in a trial. Lola was the one who had to weed through the audio, capturing the pertinent sections as required. Sometimes though, ahem, personal calls were made and we took great delight in the midst of said calls, shouting “Hi Lola!” just so she wouldn’t be bored while listening. 

She was especially understanding when she found me dancing and lip syncing on a graveyard shift to a boom box we had in the corner of dispatch. To my credit I finished the song despite our super awkward eye contact. To her credit she merely shook her head and went back to her office.

There are people who come into your life and alter it forever. Usually you don’t recognize it in the moment with the impact only becoming clear later on. But oh, sometimes you know it right then and you relish every margarita and tortilla chip, dance, and story you are privileged to share together. 

Lola Crain, there will never be another human being like you.

She Still Looks For Me

 A millisecond is less than an eye blink. Science-y people can address this in greater detail and in ways I cannot fathom. My sociology/criminology degree only goes so far. 

What I do know is this: in the instant registering victory or failure, my daughter looks for me. In a moment demanding response, my girl checks to see I am there. 

It’s quicker than the catch of a pop-up. Or its drop. Faster than a solid hit. Or the last swing of a strike out. More rapid than a stolen base. Or bunt. Or getting called out.

It is an infinitesimal shift disguised as a glance. To find me. To make sure I see her. And I am there. I see her. Every time.

I can write a bunch more words about all this - lord knows I have that capacity and inclination. But somehow this particular exchange between us seems sacred and I will honor it.

Very soon she’ll realize she can validate her own self and doesn’t need my presence nor approval. It’s going to absolutely crush and delight me in equal parts.

That time is nearer than I’d like but that’s how this all works. I adore the honor of watching her evolve and grow. Even as she moves beyond me…because, oh, that’s the good stuff right there.

It all feels so fast. And I’m nowhere near ready. But it’s not about me at all. 

For now, for today’s game, she still looked for me. That is enough. 

Words and Moments

My dad and I loved what he’d call ‘visiting’ with each other. I’ll be real, we both just enjoyed talking and we could certainly each hold our own. Whether at the kitchen table, a restaurant, or especially at a book store with a coffee after some book purchases!

Some talks were anecdotal and humorous. Dad: “Did I ever tell you about…?” Family stories passed down and I was never quite sure what was actual truth and what was embellished in the interest of a good story. I enjoyed them all the same. Still other conversations as adults were deep, meaningful, and sometimes unwieldy. 

In those challenging discussions, we didn’t always agree but it made the interaction more significant. When someone you love and respect presents an opposing viewpoint, you probably should take a pause. At the very least, quit planning the next thing you intend to say and simply be open. Breathe.

I treasured the times dad asked for my opinion because he really wanted to know my thoughts. We’d share quotes and poems from our favorite authors. One was Frederick Buechner. Look him up for his vast CV. Most importantly, Buechner wasn’t afraid to dig deep and question. That immediately made him one of my ‘top ten.’

I sent this quote to dad a few years ago and just re-read it before a wonderfully healing yoga practice:

Dad’s response? “Buechner does it again! I love you the most, Jules.”

Note to self today? Timing is everything. Thanks daddy, I hear you loud and clear.