If it is true, as Zora Neale Hurston so wisely proclaimed, that “there are years that ask questions, and years that answer,” then it is also true that there are years that bring new people into your life, and years that take people away.
This was a year that took some away.
Every year is a year of loss in truth, every year another that someone, somewhere, begins again. Each of these departures, each of these new beginnings offer us insights both rare and cherished. Each, through the weight of grief and reconciliation with all we cannot change, offers us the chance to learn, to grow, to absorb the lessons their presence here afforded.
This year, this bizarre and challenging and haunting year that was, took someone from this little life of mine that taught me beautiful lessons, though in very unique ways. That lesson was a simple one, taught through the manner in which he lived, taught in the memories I have of him, the stories I have of those that knew him best. That lesson was this:
Whatever happens, whatever you do, whatever you become, be not forgettable.
Rod Nichols was many things, forgettable never, ever, ever, one of them. He was one of my Dad’s very best friends. He was a former major league baseball pitcher, then coach. He was absolutely, positively, bizarrely insane. In every single way that can possibly coalesce into making someone the most interesting person in any room they walk into. Heavy metal fan, soft spoken gentle giant who stood 6’3 or 6’4, he lived a wild life that brought him all over the world, only to end up living on a whim in the mountains of Montana.
We went to his memorial a week or two after he died, we listened to the stories everyone who loved him told, listened to my own father and mother get up to speak, shaking voice sharing tales that brought laughter to each corner of the room. There was the time that he froze on the mound whilst pitching in a AAA game in Albuquerque and then waved for my Dad (his pitching coach at the time) to come out to talk to him. Once out, Rod got very quiet, and said “Don’t make it obvious, but look over my shoulder into the sky,” and when my Dad immediately glanced, he firmly told him “DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS!” My Dad, thinking something must be sincerely wrong, or that Rod was having a nervous breakdown, asked him immediately, “What’s wrong, what is it?” “See that cloud, the flat bottomed one, fluffy on top, right behind me over my shoulder??” Rod asked. “They don’t make those clouds here. They make them in Colorado, then have them shipped down.”
My Dad, speechless for maybe the first time in his entire life, stared back until Rod finished with, “Ok. That’s all. You can go now.”
Or, there was the other game, an Albuquerque day game with temperatures over 100° when the moment the inning was over he sprinted off the field, through the dugout, and into the clubhouse up the tunnel below. My Dad chased after him, thinking he must be sick or that something terrible had happened, and once entering the clubhouse, found him lying flat on his back in the middle of the locker room. “ARE YOU OK?!” he yelled down. Rod didn’t answer, but then immediately continued doing what he was doing before my Dad got in…Making snow angels on the floor.
“It’s HOT out there Goose!” he said, “I had to do some snow angels to cool down.”
He did 10 or 12 more, stood up, grabbed his mitt, and went back out onto the field. I think he struck the next two batters out.
Rod was someone that everyone remembered. Someone that no one could forget. Someone with a personality as big as his heart. Rod was the first to show up at the hospital in the middle of the night when my little sister had appendicitis and emergency surgery while my Dad was away in the Dominican Republic. Rod was the guy with a balloon and a stuffed animal in his hands before she even woke up from surgery.
When I left his memorial, I felt a strange mixture of sadness and relief. Sorrow for the fact that I won’t be able to make new memories of him, that there won’t be any new stories of him doing ridiculous and oddball things; sorrow for my Dad who lost such a treasured friend. Then I felt relief, relief that he wasn’t suffering any more, relief that he got to begin again in a body that worked better, that could do what his spirit wished. I felt relief that so many were able to share time here with him, that their memories became stories, and those stories became little short films in my own mind.
Be big, my friends, be Rod Nichols big.
Life is short, we’re here such an infinitesimally small amount of time, we have a choice every day if we’re to be ordinary, if we’re to be humdrum or acquiesce to the perceived demands this ridiculous world thrusts upon us, or if we’re to be something else, something more.
Be more.
Allow the colors of your soul to bleed out, allow it to stain the pure white and properly pressed suits and ties and jackets and slacks and shoes of those around you. BE YOU, be outrageous and be honest and be silly and be courageous enough to be laughed at.
Be kind.
Just be kind and just be open to the great big ridiculous mystery that is this life, on this planet, at this time.
I’ll miss Rod, I’ll miss knowing my Dad has someone like that in his orbit. I’ll miss the antics, the gentle voice, the bonkers things that came out of his mouth, and this is ok. He lives in the lessons I learned from him, from one lesson above all, and I am thankful for that:
Be Not Forgettable.
Song of the Week
This little gem ain’t forgettable. I promise you that. Order one, or ten. You’ll thank me later maybe.
