I was three years old when I met Jamie. Of my closest friends, I have exactly zero memories of meeting any of them. But Jamie? I’ll never forget.
I’m outside in the yard at Kathy Brown’s Preschool. The swing set is nearby, and kids are playing and shouting. I’m standing near the fence on a bit of a slope, and I have a handful of flowers. I notice an irresistible clump of orange blooms when a confident, authoritative voice declares, “It’s illegal to pick California poppies. The police will put you in jail.” I turn to face a little girl with perfectly straight hair, big blue eyes, and freckles. Someone else is with her and they’re nodding appreciatively. The warmth rushes up my face as I pretend this isn’t exactly what I’m planning. I quickly scan the parking lot for cruisers… she’s read my mind.
And that’s the day I met Jamie A.
Turns out, Jamie and I have a lot in common– besides our name. We both live in the mountains. We both have a younger sibling whose name starts with G. And at one point, our parents drive identical Volkswagen vans. People genuinely believe us when we tell them we’re twins with the same name. She is one of my lifelong best friends and I love her to pieces.
So when her dad passed away on January 7th, my heart broke again.
Jamie’s dad, Jim, was the very first James in my life. He is a man of countless interests and talents. He is an inventor, an entrepreneur, a vintner, a devoted husband, partner, and dad. He’s deeply proud of his Italian heritage. When he laughs, his cheeks turn pink and his eyes sparkle, just like his daughter, Gabrielle. Many hours of my childhood are spent at “the shop” while he partners with his spouse, overseeing the artistic side of design and the technical side of printing. And countless more constructing make-believe worlds under his redwoods. Years later, as newlyweds, we spent a magical evening with Jim and Peggy at the Moulin de la Galette in Paris. We always vowed to go back.
This past year has surfaced many childhood memories, both big and small. And Jim was an important presence during two of the most formative.
The first was when I was four years old. It was just after Christmas. It had been raining for weeks. That night, my dad comes through the kitchen door wearing a bright yellow rain slicker. He might have been wearing matching pants. He tells my mom that mud has come down into the back of the garage. We need to leave. Now.
The four of us pile into the little blue LUV truck. Tense voices. Darkness. Rain. We drive down Jarvis, but it’s blocked. I imagine Upper Jarvis is also blocked. We spend the night at our neighbors. The next morning, Jamie and I eat breakfast on the kitchen floor. It’s a picnic. The grownups talk above us. It’s warm and safe by the wood stove with her dog… wait for it… Poppy. Life went on, though we never did go home.
Nine years later, we encounter a similarly perilous night. After the Loma Prieta earthquake, Jim and Peggy, discover me standing in a field as they navigate the back roads home. Actually, it was in front of Kathy Brown’s house, of poppy-filled preschool fame. They swoop me up, put me in the backseat with the girls, and we start for home. We slowly drive past rocks and debris. We talk to neighbors. And when we can’t go any further, Jim leads us on foot, by moonlight, past landslides and fallen trees to a car waiting on the other side. He turns off the gas at my house, and with both of my parents unable to get home, makes sure my brother and I have a safe place to sleep.
After the mudslide, when I was four years old, I remember riding home in the backseat with Jamie. We can’t see out the windows. Our legs stick straight out over the edge of the seat. Jim’s driving and he says, “We found some of your toys in the creek today!” My heart soars. Toys?? Oh the possibilities!
I will always cherish Jim’s steady, thoughtful presence. His vast interests and intellect across almost any subject. His mirthful laugh and his sense of ease. And above all, that feeling he gave me of safety, and possibility.
