Zoë and I spent Saturday at a memorial service for our friend Steve Jacobs. The service was filled with honest and heartfelt speeches (one given by my dad), a jam session in the cultural hall afterwards, and many memories of Steve recounted by dear friends and family. Steve would have enjoyed all of it so much that I couldn't stop wondering why we don't hold such services before a person dies when possible. It would be a lovely going-away gift.
My dad grew up in Steve's neighborhood in southern California. Steve, a decade older than my dad, was the cool guy down the street who taught all of the neighborhood kids how to play music--from electric guitar to bass to drum. Steve had served as a medic in Vietnam and had a hard time when he returned. He ended up living with his parents his whole life and caring for them in their old age and sickness. I hadn't seen Steve much since I got married, but the service brought back many memories:
Steve picking us kids up and taking us out for ice cream.
Listening to him recount the history of rock-and-roll (his great love) with so much passion and energy that I could listen to him for an hour and only get kind of bored.
Playing Frogger and basketball at his house.
Exploring instruments of my choosing in his basement and feeling like it would be possible for me to be in a band if I wanted to be.
Him taking me and a bunch of friends to a midnight dollar movie featuring U2.
Peering in his closet and seeing his "uniform"--dozens of pairs of kakhi pants and denim shirts
Having stacks of videos and notebooks filled with song lyrics he'd lent us around the house.
Watching him rehearse in our living room with my parents in the band they were all in
Talking to someone who seemed geniuinely interested in what I had to say and would build off of my thoughts in a creative way.
It's strange to think that Steve is no longer down the street from my parents' house, willing at the drop of a hat to teach a new song or grab a movie and some ice cream. I wish I would have done all that with him more often.
I miss you, Steve.
5 comments:
My heart ached when I read this. I am sorry for you loss. I do love how i felt like I knew him and i was there walking in those memories too.
I'm really sorry. People like that are too few are far between in this life.
Thanks, Rachel. I had forgotten about all the stuff you guys had done together.
Steve was a truly good,good person.
My brother just mentioned that he had died. When they were younger they would go to his house and he taught him how to play the guitar. Small world.
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