It stands to reason that someone I first met on an unforgettable day, (9/11/2001), should pass, after a lengthy battle with Parkinson’s, on a date as distinctive as 6/16/26.
We met in the library. It was my first week working in a district where I would eventually spend three years as the high school librarian. On Tuesday, September 11th, Nick reached out and asked if he could bring his Participation in Government classes down to the LMC to watch the news coverage of what was happening in our country’s skies.
At the time, televisions were not present in every classroom and he understood the importance of the events of the day.
A few moments later, Nick and his class entered the library. My immediate impression was that he would be a contender in a Hemingway look alike contest. He was bearded with a full head of hair and a walk that communicated strength and faint memories of long ago football injuries. His voice was soft, but I would later come to know that he possessed a laugh that could only be described as ebullient.
It was one of my favorite noises.
I immediately saw the respect he had for his high school senior students, a feeling that was mutual with all but the most committed conservatives he encountered. Nick believed that the young adults he worked with should be aware of what was happening a mere 150 miles from where we stood and he spoke to the kids about Osama bin Laden and his own belief that he was undoubtedly the mastermind of the day’s terrorist attacks.
Of course, he was right.
We quickly became friends, sharing similar political beliefs and a love of music and socializing with like minded colleagues. I was included in afterschool gatherings at the lovely home he and his wife had built in rural Schenectady county, which was surrounded by gorgeous gardens that they carefully cultivated and furnished with craftsman furniture and souvenirs from their travels. I met their cat, Chaka Khan, a long haired beauty who roamed freely, and his impressive beer fridge housed in the garage.
I grew to know them as a couple who had met as high school students and escaped their small town beginnings to enjoy a shared life as parents, educators and travelers who loved to explore new places. His curriculum provided him with an opportunity to teach young people about a pivotal point in this country’s (and his own personal) history, Vietnam.
Nick didn’t serve in the war due to the assaults his body had absorbed on the football field during his high school athletic career. He carried the weight of his exemption heavily, balanced with his own sense of the injustices of war. He pulled no punches with his students, demonstrating to them the importance of being an active member of his community and speaking out to address the wrongs of our government.
He was a force for good, even as he acknowledged his own failings.
During my time at Mohonasen, we shared a lot of laughs, along with some tears as tragedies continued to unfold in the building where we worked together for three years. When I left that district for the one from which I would eventually retire, I remained in touch with Nick and his wife, Bobbi. While we didn’t get together frequently, we managed more than a couple of happy hours and home visits, always filled with laughter and lively conversation.
About a decade ago, Nick’s Parkinson’s began its relentless progress in earnest. His previously strong body became unpredictable in action and his world became smaller. I witnessed the failures of our healthcare system as Bobbi worked tirelessly to obtain the best care and services for her partner of more than a half century.
Eventually, it became too much for Nick to remain at home. His increasingly frequent falls and deteriorating mental acuity demanded a more structured environment, one in which Bobbi wasn’t solely responsible for Nick.
Nick’s final residence was a nursing home in Saratoga, not too far from the home they had moved to about a decade ago. I visited him there, along with mutual friends, once. I had imagined, with my retirement and increased free time, that I would get back to see him again, but I just couldn’t seem to make it happen.
In May when I visited Maine, I thought of Nick and Bobbi a lot. They had lived in Maine for a number of years and often spoke of their time there fondly. In my mind, I associated them with this rugged, independent part of the country and I felt their presence in a lovely visceral way.
It was like they were with me.
Last week I heard from a former coworker that Nick had stopped eating. She said his passing was getting close, a gentle prompt for me to visit him while I still could.
I couldn’t.
For the first time that I can remember, I didn’t want to go see a person I loved one last time. The thought of my final memory of Nick being one in which he was a shadow of the man I knew, simply was too much for me. Instead, I sat with the memories of the friend who called me Lillybird and wished him a gentle passing as he met the slipstream which would take him to his place of rest.
Rest easy, Coupdog. You’ll never be forgotten.
If you’re open on this Sunday, 6/21, there’s a local event to raise funds for Parkinson’s Disease research that might be of interest. Go – listen to some music and enjoy being alive on the longest day of the year.
That’s what Nick would have done.
DelSo 