I have lived in fear of Mitch McGlaughlin since the day we met in a university two decades ago. And I have loved every minute of it since. As I read about his death last week, and smiled at the flood of wonderful memories rushing back, I still see no reason not to continue living in fear of him today.
I remain convinced at any moment he will pull into my suburban home’s driveway, behind the wheel of a red Chevrolet Caprice convertible, and begin to honk unmercifully. The grumbling of the beast will wake my children, startle my wife and set my dog howling at an unseen moon like a drunkard on payday. Mitch will continue to honk until I rise from my family bed and open the front door. “Grab your pants, Winders, and get in the car! We’re driving to Vegas. No time now, but I’ll explain somewhere around Barstow.”
And know what, I would go in a minute.
It always amazes me how fast it can all come flooding back.
We preach ‘experience’ at Western, and although every university has its own version of it, we do ‘experience’ very well. But sometimes, even our experience experts have trouble explaining a university experience’s value to students or quantifying its value to their parents. It’s too squishy, in many ways. It’s an experience you simply have to experience to understand.
As our latest bunch of graduates prepare to cross one stage, and walk onto another, they’ll find out soon enough that experience isn’t left curbside with their old furniture. It’s something very rich, very alive, even in death.
Mitch was my friend. He stood among a small-yet-powerful cabal of journalists, thespians, writers, drinkers, educators, romantics, failed musicians and combinations therein, who dominated my university years and make up so much of who I am. These people, who despite the tyranny of distance and decades – and a little thing called life, are still my friends to this day, ones only a call or note away from my side or I theirs.
I carry multiple pieces of each with me, near me, on my bookshelves and stereo, in my jokes and stories. These were true friends, as they loved me when I was a cocky, unknowing fool, unlike the knowing one who writes this today. And as much as I hate staring into the mindset of my 20-year-old self, there are some wonderful moments when raw ignorance somehow fueled unfathomable confidence and led to amazing adventures.
Mitch would lead many of those. He was – he is my friend.
He lived a good life, not an easy one. He battled cancer too early in life. When I was still acting a fool – and for many years afterward – he was taking treatments. I remember marveling at the strength that took, and now, as cancer has eaten its way into my own family, my respect for his strength in those days has exploded.
He is loved by so many, and lives on in thousands of hearts. I hate that you’re gone, old friend. Just one more beer, one more laugh would have been great. But I waited too long. Let that be a lesson to the rest of us left behind, by the way.
Those memories – those experiences – have been in mind all week, seemingly unaltered over nearly two decades. These young folks we’re sending into the world the next few weeks don’t realize the power just yet. Experience isn’t something you even understand while it’s happening; perhaps you don’t realize its impact until years later when something can snap you back to those days on campus. The memories stay rich, and alive. Even in death.
And for me this week, perhaps that’s when they are the most comforting.