I was fortunate enough to have five good friends as a young man. Those of you who have kept up with this blog may possibly recall that I have written about those friends over the years, including the very first thing I posted, a semi-fictional account called “Christmas Eve at Donk’s,” back in April, 2005. One of the friends I wrote about was nicknamed Dude, and his real name was Mike McNair.
I think I met Mike in the third or fourth grade at Carlile after he and his brother Doyle had transferred from another school. We became friends for the year or two that he was there before his parents moved out of Carlile’s boundaries. We reconnected at Keating and were good friends for our three years there and during our years at Central. We played pinball together, played poker and pool, went out with girls, hunted rats at the dump, fished, drank, and most of all, we just hung out and talked. For a whole summer in 1958, because of a misdiagnosed illness, I was unable to leave the house except after dark. On most of those days, Mike would show up at my house and spend several hours with me. I never forgot that, and thankfully, a few years ago I wrote and told him how much I appreciated it.
As a young boy Mike was diagnosed with what was then called “juvenile diabetes.” He gave himself his shot every day and most of the time we, his buddies, didn’t know it. He became expert in knowing when a reaction was starting, and even more important, he learned how much insulin to take before he did the things he wasn’t supposed to do.
I wrote several other posts in which Mike was prominently mentioned. You may remember me writing that he, Robert Pardun, Gerry Perko and I were good friends and roommates in Boulder in the fall of 1961. The four of us had great times together, and that was a period of my life I never forgot. Mike was determined to do everything the rest of us did, despite the handicap of diabetes. He ate sweets if he wanted and drank as much as the others. I remember one night when he drank way too much wine. We put him to bed, but if we had been more knowledgeable about his disease, we would have brought him to the hospital. He told us once that when he was small a doctor told him he wouldn’t live past age thirty. He beat that by forty. He was a funny guy who came up with his own expressions. If someone was angry, they had “tight jaws.” He talked about fishing in “urine pond.” He could draw beautifully and did funny cartoons. He exasperated me sometimes, like when he went to work in Alaska in the summer of 1961 with the plan of earning enough money for college that year. He came back with a car and no money. But that was Mike, we were young, and sometimes we did things that didn’t make sense.
I remember an afternoon at the UMC in Boulder when Mike and I played a pinball machine together, me using the right flipper, him the left, which was awkward, but we were good at it. We won so many games that we drew a small crowd watching, and played until we got bored and left with free games still on the machine.
When the original group broke up, Mike and I roomed together the next semester too, right up to the time he got married and left school. He returned to Boulder the next fall with his wife Donna and their son. Then they moved to Salt Lake City and had another boy. When Robert, Gerry and I drove to San Francisco during spring break in 1963, we made sure to stop for a night with Mike and Donna on the way home.
Mike’s marriage broke up and he moved to California and lived with Perko for a while, and I visited them and we had a great time in 1965. Mike had me drop him off at work in Palo Alto and let me use his car to drive to San Francisco or wherever else I wanted to go.
He married Rose and they had two sons, and Mike became very successful in the Silicon Valley area doing a variety of things. He was a smart, personable guy who everybody liked and that combination worked well. Over the years we saw each other occasionally when Jackie and I, and sometimes our kids, went to California. The last time was in 2008 when Pardun, Perko, Mike and I, and our wives, had a reunion at Mike’s home near Santa Cruz. By then the diabetes was finally catching up with him. He had heart problems, trouble with his eyes, and spoke of possibly having to go on dialysis. But he was still working, operating his own company.
A few months ago I wrote a short piece for the Pueblo County Historical Society about the changes on Third Street in Pueblo over the last fifty years, and included something about the pool hall in which we had spent many hours. I concluded that I wished that my three friends and I could shoot one more game together. Robert wrote to me saying that if that was what I wanted, I shouldn’t wait too long to come to California.
I emailed that little article to Mike too, and his response was the last time I heard from him. I wish I had kept it. He wrote sure, if I came out we could have a game of pool. He would look forward to it.
I got the bad news yesterday, calls from both Pardun and Perko. Goodby, Dude. It was a pleasure. Thanks for all you did for me. Thanks for being my friend.
Jerry Miller
August 11, 2011
August 12, 2011 at 1:57 pm |
Jerry,
I’m especially sorry for you and your close friends, but I’m sorry for all of us.
Jeff
August 12, 2011 at 6:13 pm |
Jerry,
I am deeply saddened to hear of the death of your dear friend, Mike McNair. He was a good friend of mine also, but I did not know him nearly as well as you.
Mike was really an unforgettable, funny guy. One never knew what would come next from that creative mind. At Carlile, I think we shared a homeroom in 3rd or 4th grade. In any case, he shared his amazing drawings with me on a regular basis. He was a regular, as you know, at our poker games, and we could always count on him with sharp, funny quips that kept us entertained and on our toes.
One of the last times I saw Mike was at the end of our senior year, when he wrote in my annual and drew a picture. He wrote, “Big Ray, This is big, big daddy Mike talking — now listen! The big test of your fishing skill is before you, my boy — face it like a man would. If you don’t pass this test, my boy, don’t fret nor worry. There will be many more chances for you — so buckle down and practice on that out-moded fishing kit of yours, in hopes that someday you will be able to match the superb fishing skill of your big daddy buddy.” At the side of this, Mike drew a picture of an unfortunate person (me) at the bottom of what might be “Urine Pond,” with my broken fishing rod by my side.
I am not sure of Mike’s ethnic heritage, but the name “McNair” is Scottish. I always thought of Mike as one of those lively leprechauns (but that’s Irish), with his red hair and twinkling eyes, a master of mischief.
Definition of Leprechaun: “One of a race of elves in Irish folklore who can reveal hidden treasure to those who catch them.” For those who knew Mike, he offered a treasure of fun and surprises. May Mike rest in peace, as he lives in our memories.
Ray
August 15, 2011 at 4:22 am |
Jer:
We al have stories to tell about Mike. I have three I want to share, all speaking to aspects of Mike’s personality. The first story speaks to his pragmatic approach to life, the second to his tendency to ‘exaggerate’ a bit, and the third to his sense of humor.
I think it was Summer of 1962 when we got word that Mike was in the hospital. We all went to see him and it turned out that he had fallen into a diabetic coma the day before, primarily because of the way he self-medicated. While we talked, the doctor came in, examined Mike, and then proceeded to tell him all the bad things that were to befall him if he didn’t straighten out his life as related to diabetes – loss of limbs, particularly feet, blindness. kidney failure, and the list went on and on. When the doctor left, Mike said “Boy, is he a gloomy fellow.” In spite if his glib remarks, I never saw Dude abuse his body again.
It was some time later, I don’t remember the date, when several of us were gathered somewhere talking, solving the problems of the world. The group included myself, Miller, Pardun, McNair, Bob Naylor, Auggie Frankmore, and one other guy I didn’t know. The subject of urination came up (as Jerry mentioned, not everything we did then made sense, Most of what I did made no sense at all). Mike said, that as a child, he had taken long bus rides on busses with no facilities, and because of those bus rides, he could ‘piss a quart’. He was immediately challenged by Bob Naylor, who contended correctly that the human body typically could not hold more than a pint of pee. I came to Dude’s defense because, once at a drive in movie, I had seen him do it! His detractors fell silent and after a while, we left, I was told later that Naylor had said that since Perko said it (and by implication, anyone else) he could believe it, but if only McNair said it, he wasn’t buying it for a second!
When Mike stayed with me in California, Rose came to visit. She cooked this wonderful supper and, as we sat down to eat, she asked Mike to say grace. Mike bowed is head and said, with much fervor and venom, “Oh, JESUS CHRIST…”. Rose interupted, saying, ” That’s enough, Michael. Thank You.” and we ate. Although I cannot be sure, I assume that was the last time Rose asked Michael to say grace.
Mike was a special person and he will be missed.
Perko
August 15, 2011 at 1:32 pm |
Jerry,
Your memorial to Mike moved me. I didn’t know him well at all, but through your writing he became a symbol for me of lost friends. Each of the more than a hundred of our classmates who have died was very special to someone. It’s painful for me to think of but all of us will be gone too soon.
I think we lived through a remarkable time, our time. Pueblo was relatively more prosperous when we were growing up than at any time since, and we had the advantage of having parents who were straitened and strengthened by the Depression. Future historians will write about that time. Perhaps our grandchildren will read some of that and say, “Gee, I should have asked Grandpa and Grandma about what it was like..”
Of course what we miss now, more than the times, are the people themselves, the things we did together, If we can know beyond death, I bet Mike is glad his friends are thinking about him.
Jeff Arnold
August 18, 2011 at 4:47 pm |
Classmates: Laurine (Myers) Mitchell had difficulty posting this comment and asked me to do it for her. If others of you have the same problem you can email your comments to either Jeff Arnold or myself.
Hi Jerry — My sincere sympathies in the loss of your friend and our classmate, Mike McNair. Like you, I first met Mike (and brother Doyle) when we were in elementary school at Carlile. I always thought that Mike had a subtle sense of humor, and I’m sure, I wasn’t the only girl who had a crush on him from time to time throughout our schooling. (He never looked my way!) Reading Mike’s obituary, his history of accomplishments seem much like I recall him in when we were in school — rather understated in what he was able to accomplish. Again, my sympathy to you, Jerry, and to his family.
laurine
August 20, 2011 at 7:22 am |
As Michael’s niece (daughter of his oldest brother, Norman), I am moved by your posts. You show me a side of my uncle that I did not know much about – his youth. As a man, he was witty, artistic and much loved by his family. It was hard to hear that he was gone. His memorial was a tribute to the man that lived, not the man that died and I really appreciated that. Thanks for your memories…
Norma McNair
August 20, 2011 at 8:40 pm |
This is from Robert Pardun
Mike McNair and I met at a Methodist Youth Group meeting when we were both in high school. Gerry Perko and Jerry Miller were also good friends of Mike and when we all transferred to Pueblo Junior College in the fall of 1959 we became a four-some who enjoyed being and doing things together. We all hung out together, playing cards in the new Student Union, bowling, going to movies, fishing, shooting pool at the Third Street Cigar store or playing poker at Perko’s while drinking home-made beer that tasted like bread. We could often be found at the HiFi in Bessemer sitting at a table talking and drinking Coors by the pitcher. In Boulder the four of us moved into a basement apartment and lived together for the first semester.
We all knew that Mike was diabetic and that he had to shoot up insulin every day. He had been told that he could be dead before he turned thirty and had made up his mind to live on the edge. He ate and drank as he pleased but he always shot up enough insulin to take care of whatever he ate or drank. He knew that this was hard on his body but he had decided to live a “normal life” in spite of it.
Knowing Mike was a lot more than meeting over a glass of beer. When we were at PJC, Dude would pick me up early in the morning in his Studebaker, we all called it a SteadyBreaker and we’d go to the student cafeteria, which was a Quonset hut, to get a cup of coffee and a pastry for breakfast and listen to the juke box before heading for our 8 o’clock classes. Between our sophomore and junior years, Mike went to Kodiak Island in Alaska to count returning salmon. There were also huge bears that were interested in the salmon and Mike returned with lots of interesting stories. Mike was interested in electronics and left Boulder to work in the emerging semi-conductor industry.
One last story about the luck of the Irish. Mike had a calculus teacher at PJC who tried to teach her students to solve problems in their heads. She would write the problem on the board and ask the students to solve it without using paper and pencil. One day she put up a problem and Mike recognized it as being a problem that was in the textbook. He quietly found the page and saw that it was one of the exercises for which the answer was given. He raised his hand and gave the answer and from that day forth he was treated as a star student.
Dude was 70 when he died. That’s 40 years longer than his doctor had predicted. He must have been doing something right.
August 21, 2011 at 5:41 pm |
Michael was my father. The ‘fearsome foursome’ was something he often spoke of fondly and with great humor. During my tenure as his son, and being blessed to have lived most of my adult life nearby, his stories would hold us entranced. That was one of his many gifts. Delivering a story.
It didn’t matter what the story was, or whether he had already shared it a dozen times. You could just tell as he began that he was slipping back to a time that was frozen somewhere deep in his memory, and that the telling would take him there again. His eyes would glisten and sparkle as he embellished, and I believe that his heart soared with the idea that he could deliver us there with him.
Losing a father hits hard as a still young man of 42. Young men like me are blessed when we have older men like him to talk to, question, and shut up and listen to.
There is a great chair at the head of the table now empty, and the stories and lessons have gone silent. Grief runs deep as I wonder if I will ever find a father quite like him again.
January 13, 2012 at 7:31 am |
I’m learning of Mike’s passing many months late. I, too, have fond memories of knowing Mike and his brother Doyle through MYF meetings at church. I remember him from Central, also, and always considerred him a nice guy although I doubt that he knew who in the heck I was. Mostly, though, I know him best from the stories recanted by Miller, Pardun, Keen, Smith and Perko on this blog.
I am humbled by the stories of good friends sticking together throughout many years of growing up and throughout even more years as husbands, fathers and grandfathers. What a legacy all of you great friends gave to one another’s families…what special memories you have given to Mike’s family. I know that he is thankful from his place of rest.
My condolences to you in Mike’s family for your loss. Please believe that he still listens to you. Please believe that he still rides with you on occasions when you are silent in thought during travel. And believe deep within your heart that he sends the essence of absolute love to you still.