Front Porch: Loss makes us mindful of each moment

Dodging puddles in the drizzling rain, I hustled from one meeting to the next. Hands in my coat pockets, head down, wishing I’d taken the time to grab my umbrella.

While waiting at the crosswalk for the light to change, I looked up to see a small boy heading down the sidewalk toward me. Clutching his mother’s hand, he purposefully veered toward the biggest puddle on the sidewalk – the one I’d carefully avoided.

In a flash, he’d jumped into it with both feet. Dirty water shot upward, soaking his pant legs and dousing his mom’s, as well. “Splash!” he hollered. “Splash!”

His mom shook her head and laughed. “That’s what rain boots are for, I guess.”

I nodded and looked down at my feet. I was wearing my new rubber rain boots. The ones with the whimsical gray and purple pattern – the ones I’d bought with days like this in mind.

The light changed and the three of us crossed the street together. Smiling, I stomped through the first puddle I saw. “Splash!” said the boy behind me. “Good one!” And he promptly followed suit.

When I got back to my desk, I thought of my friend Dave McKenzie, who was noted for greeting folks with a “quack” on rainy days. I pulled up his Facebook page to send him a “quack,” and that’s when the gray day got so much darker.

Dave was dead. At 41 he’d committed suicide by walking in front of a commuter train near his Southern California home.

Stunned, I scrolled through the messages and posts, as bewildered friends poured out their grief. His life partner, Betsy, revealed that despite his ever-present grin, Dave had long suffered from depression. A fact he hid from most.

When I first waded into the world of social media, Dave quickly befriended me. He was serving on the Spokane Valley Chamber of Commerce at the time and frequently posted pictures of himself wielding a giant pair of scissors at business grand openings. “I’ve always wanted to wield a giant pair of scissors!” I told him.

He promptly issued an invitation for me to use the big scissors, and a friendship was formed.

A passionate advocate of small business, Dave served two terms as the president of SCORE Spokane. A recovering alcoholic, he had celebrated 14 years of sobriety.

When I stressed out about a looming deadline, he texted me a picture of a plaque that read “Deadlines Amuse Me.” He sent me that reminder frequently over the years, and it never failed to make me smile.

Six days after Dave’s death, another sudden loss shook me. Longtime North Idaho writer, blogger and online commenter Patrick Jacobs died at 42.

Patrick’s wit, humor and sassy take on food, fashion and music brightened the Huckleberries Online community. For a time we both wrote for the The Spokesman-Review’s Handle Extra section, and we bonded over column inches and weekly deadlines.

Though Patrick’s print persona was bold, brash and bigger than life, in person he was shy and humble, eschewing the spotlight, content to let others shine.

Two vibrant lights vanished in less than a week. No chance to say goodbye – no opportunity to tell Dave or Patrick how much I valued their presence in my life.

What I wouldn’t give for just a moment to tell Dave how much his “quacks” made me smile. How his words of affirmation and enthusiasm often buoyed my spirit when I felt bogged down by the weight of deadlines.

I’d love to read just one more Patrick Jacobs restaurant review, or witty blog comment, so I could tell him how much I appreciated his wicked sense of humor and sparkling sense of fun.

And that’s the bittersweet gift of loss. It prompts us to be more mindful of each moment. It opens our eyes to opportunities to say “thank you,” or “I love you,” or “good job.”

If we let it, loss will nudge us to take more risks, to be more vulnerable, to jump in more puddles – even when we’re in a hurry, even if we’re think we’re too grown up to make a splash.

One of wisest pieces of advice Dave offered came in a 2011 newspaper article about SCORE. “Don’t wait for the perfect moment,” he said. “The perfect moment never comes.”

David Allen McKenzie Jr., 11/30/1972 - 10/20/2014

Patrick Jacobs, 4/11/1972 - 10/26/94