When John Goodnight fell backwards, he wasn’t expecting that
by the next day his body would be remaining earthbound while his spirit would spring
skyward to the next world. Like the
milkweed pod, bursting out its seeds in a canyon in Reno on the morning of his Memorial, John dispensed his final gifts to this world, ironically, in the season
of fall.
The friends and family gathered on the crisp and sunny day,
filling every chair, overflowing to stand in the back of the room, and peering
in from the wide-open doors. John’s
three sons with much grace and humor began illuminating their father's gifts.
First his smile: “We
had a hard time finding any pictures when he wasn’t smiling,” said the oldest
of his three sons. On the screen flashed
a photo of two of the very exhausted-looking sons, having just hiked fourteen miles - seven
with elk or deer meat on their backs.
And there stood John, grinning and looking not the least tired.
In my memories of John Goodnight, I likewise can’t find any in which he was not smiling. Not as he walked down the halls of Reno High School, not cruising Virginia Street after a football game, nor after school as he stood around with my friend DeDe, hoping to impress her. He was a good man way back then and he never tarnished that image. He married Dede, had three children with her, and was with her to his last minute.
Second gift – his positive outlook and skills: “Wow,” John said smiling as he surveyed the
damage of two huge trees that had fallen on his cabin, piecing the roof and
tearing off part its front facade. Next, he
and his sons set to work with chain saws and tarps and in one day had the cabin
safe from further damage. (I am fairly
positive that when John arrived at the next world, he just might have smiled
and said, “Wow!”)
I might not have traveled to Reno for the Memorial, if
John’s parting had been some years in the future. But a death that arrives too soon beggars the
presence of mourners and asks of them the twin tasks – to cherish what was
worthy and to speculate on what might have been.
Traveling to Reno, I went first to Portland, Oregon, and that detour
meant that I would cross over to Nevada through the Mount Lassen Forest. I remembered that Dede and John at one of the last high school reunions told me that they had a cabin there. I had never traveled that route, but it
seemed appropriate. As darkness fell, I
kept up with a fast-moving truck, assuming that its driver knew the turns in the
road and might spot the deer in the meadows and the road better than I. I scattered prayers for the departed to
either side of the road and out to the lake... just in case John’s spirit was
paying the area a visit.
The memorial was all anyone of us would appreciate for a
memorial about ourselves. The many
photos and the lovely tales of John’s loves (flying, golfing, hunting, fishing,
camping, his kids, his grandkids and Dede) and of his lectures to his children
were delightful. It was noted that John
gave nearly one hundred of his body parts to others. I mention this to honor his generosity and to
make note that as unexpected as was his death, there was an element of
planning in his passing.
(Today, another friend of mine – who is in the middle of a
stem cell transplant – wrote that when things seem most disappointing, he
reminds himself that he has planned everything.
The thought brings him back to a measure of control and therefore of
comfort.)
John Goodnight’s passing put a light hand on all of us and
restrained us for a moment to consider the messages embedded in his
swiftly-executed leave-taking. My drive home from Reno to Walla Walla is ordinarily a twelve-hour
drive, but with an incontinent dog aboard, the trip was to take an extra couple
of hours. Plenty of time to consider the
meaning of John’s demise.
Hwy. 395 is one of my favorite roads. This trip, I tried to observe intensely,
accept memories of my own good man, with whom I had traveled this road, and to
savor the reflections about lives well-lived like John’s.
There isn’t much traffic on Hwy. 395 on the stretches between the small
towns. In hundreds of miles over
multiple hours I saw five semi's - three of them hay trucks, a handful of passenger cars, a fist full of pickup trucks - one loaded with wood, and three motorcycles. The sparse traffic didn’t distract me from reading road
signs. Bacon and Hogback Camp, Shirttail
Road, and Cougar Crossing. They reminded me
of John’s love of hunting and sport.
When I entered the town of John Day, I noted a sign: “Population
1752.” Who keeps the sign current? Seems like a death like John’s or a birth ought to require a quick reposting to honor their significance. Checking on the internet later, John Day's population has dropped to 1669 from the 2010 total on the sign; someone is keeping an honoring count.
In early evening, just before the sun was to set, I came to
the town and valley of Fox. In all of
the length of the road, Fox is my favorite valley. Its few buildings shoulder up to the edge of the highway, wearing a swagger like an old
cowboy. The wind-scoured buildings,
dated gas pump and deteriorating asbestos siding speak of hopes,
disappointments, and tenacity. I don’t
know if John Goodnight ever visited Fox.
If he had, I think he would have written a cowboy poem to honor it.
I traveled Hwy. 395 a couple of times with my husband, Gary. He passed away seven years ago now. I remember our two girls and us hurrying into
Squeeze-Inn Restaurant in John Day before a torrential rain. Laughing, we watched the storm and puddles
forming outside in the parking lot as we snuggled together. Another time, Gary and I stopped in Fox
Valley and he took photos of a gray-tinged tumbledown house.
Like Gary, John Goodnight seemed to have scattered a good share
of memories, wisdoms and comfort. Good
men, worth honoring for their many gifts. In the seeds of their examples are the genetics for the rest of us living an intentional life.
