Some of you might recall the passing of Joe Scanlan. His was a slow death of finally succumbing to stage 4 cancer. His friends, family and even Joe were aware of his impending death. Yet when the great inevitable happened, it hurt and shocked all who knew him.
On an icy highway in Alaska, Paul the Pilot and his lovely daughter Lea were killed in a two vehicle head on collision. Paul was 66. Lea was 25.
Here’s my tribute to Joe:
A few days ago, the Angel of Death struck again. The ultimate unwanted guest appeared with the suddenness of a terrorist attack.
On an icy highway in Alaska, Paul the Pilot and his lovely daughter Lea were killed in a two vehicle head on collision. Paul was 66. Lea was 25.
Now his family and friends are left behind with more questions than answers. How can something like this befall two top tier people?
I can’t begin to fathom the misery Kiki (his wife), his remaining children and siblings are now going through. I can only write about what I am now feeling.
Paul the Pilot and I were an Odd Couple of friends.
Starting with looks. Paul was tall, light, handsome and dapper in dress. The complete opposite of me.
Paul had a optimistic demeanor. (My other nickname for him was Paul the Polly Andy). I’m a Woody Allen pessimist/realist.
Paul was a gifted Renaissance man. He could sing, play the guitar, create kitchen cuisine, was extremely smart, fly airplanes and was versed in the art of home improvement projects. I hike, read, drink IPAs, watch sports, go to movies, write blogs and make green chili. That’s about it.
Paul was a gregarious extrovert. He needed people like I require open, empty space devoid of humans. He’d veer toward a crowd, while I’d slink away.
Paul moved to Durango years before I did. Paul lived a frenetic and busy life here. Occasionally, we’d meet for Happy Hour.
Paul (like me) was a story teller. He spoke In a dramatic emphatic manner. He once related an account concerning his Grandfather. Paul’s story was triggered by a blog I penned about the Manzanar Japanese Interment Camp in the Owens Valley of California.
For the background please read:
Apparently Grandad lived in an agricultural region of CA. Many of Grandad’s neighbors were Japanese American farmers. Three months after Pearl Harbor, FDR issued Executive Order 9066, resulting in the forced relocation of approximately 112,000 people whose eyes and last names were a bit different than White Folks. Grandad’s neighbors were ordered to take what they could carry and leave the rest behind.
Farmers own tractors, planters and plows. There’s lots of expensive specialized equipment. All this gear is necessary to sustain a farmer’s livelihood.
A few Whites tried to take advantage of the Japanese by offering rock bottom prices for their well maintained equipment. That’s a low blow to citizens who were having their Constitutional Rights yanked out from under them. Boo Hiss!
Grandad approached his soon to be exiled neighbors. The dialogue has been lost in history, but it went along these lines.
“Folks! We are neighbors. One day you will be allowed to return to your farms. For now bring your equipment onto my property. You may store it all here. I’ll watch over it and keep it safe. When the War ends, you will be back in business.”
And that’s what the Japanese American farmers did.
Whenever Paul and I were in between conversations, I’d blurt out, “I love that story about your Grandfather! I wish I got the chance to meet him! The world needs more people like your Grandad!”
In the parlance of Yiddish, Paul’s Grandad was a mensch. From the “Joys of Yiddish.”
“a "mensch" is "someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character.”
Grandad Mattson's genes were passed down to Paul. He too was a mensch. Paul was a good guy.
I’ll miss him.
RIP Paul and Lea.
Lastly a blog I once wrote about backpacking with Paul.
Make the most of your days. No one knows what’s lurking around the corner.
