In a past life, I was the IT manager for an independent insurance agency that had offices all over Maine. As it was the late 1990s, the tech available to us for connecting disparate locations was somewhat limited and (unsurprisingly) unstable; successfully running the operations of a such a far-flung organization over the internet was something that fell to my successor, for such an ability only become a reality a few years later — and long after I’d relocated to Arizona. Still, as short a part of my career as my time was with that firm, it remains one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had as an IT professional.
Much of that was due to the incredible people who worked there; although a somewhat large organization, it always felt like a close knit family despite the distances between the various offices. I’ve wondered in the years since if the improvements we’ve seen in tech — video conferencing, instant messaging — would have enhanced that sense.
Two recent events have me reminiscing about that period in my life. The first was happenstance, or perhaps a direct result of a writer’s incessant need to get the details right on actual locations that appear in their work. If you’ve picked up a copy of Duality, you’ll know that there are a few scenes that take place in Portland, including the library on the campus of the University of Southern Maine. While visiting family this past October, I took a quick side trip to ensure that the campus layout was as I had recalled from a prior excursion — there may be more visits coming in Sean’s future, after all — and in the process, drove past the current location of my former employer. That they had relocated to a building directly across the street from where I had worked seemed like the closing of some sort of cosmic circle; it snagged my attention enough that I drove past it again a few days later, caught up in memories of a younger me just beginning to find his career footing.
Thus primed, I had those thoughts top of mind as I went about doing my Christmas cards this year, especially when I came to the one for my former colleague, Patsy. She’d been the CFO of the firm when I was there, and had retired to Florida less than six months before I took a position in Tucson. We’d worked together to transition the organization to the new agency management system I’d been brought on board to implement, and got to know her fairly well. Originally from Northern Maine, she had that dry wit the region is known for, and a heart overflowing with compassion that infected anyone who spent more than ten minutes with her. Writing a quick note in her card each year always brought a smile to my face; I have so many fond stories about Patsy — of her amazing kindness, her sharp business acumen or that flaky back of hers that threatened to derail her dreams of endless rounds of golf during her golden years.
Perhaps last year’s card from Patsy was something of an omen, for when it arrived, she’d scrawled in that flowing script of hers, “I’m still alive!” At the time, I’d chuckled mightily at the sentiment as I’d heard her low voice in my head, deadpanning the sentence in that droll way unique to my colleague. I’m not sure I ever made it to the friend level with Patsy — we didn’t work together long enough — but I like to think I was on the way there when it was interrupted by both of us moving to opposite parts of the country.
So when the envelope from Florida arrived this year, I wasn’t truly prepared for what I found tucked inside. The new owners of Patsy’s place had quite kindly returned my card with a note attached, gently letting me know that my former colleague had passed earlier this year. It was a gesture Pasty herself would have done, for she’d never liked leaving loose ends. The two of us hadn’t seen each other in years and yet suddenly knowing that there would be no chance to reconnect again felt final in a visceral way that’s hard to explain. And yet, I am more certain than ever that Patsy had a huge impact on me, both professionally and personally. I’m not sure I ever recognized just how significant it was until it was clear I could no longer tell her.
I’ve kept the card on my writing desk since it arrived. Part of me knows that when I move it off the desk, it’s a subtle acknowledgment that life has once more moved on, with or without my consent; a tiny part hopes that keeping it there on the faux wood grain surface will similarly prevent memories of Patsy from receding into my own memory. Then again, I don’t think she will, actually; folks like her who make an impact on your life tend to weave themselves throughout it in ways not always obvious. In her case, I see Patsy each time I open Excel and start to crunch a particularly nasty formula.
Here’s hoping that the fairways are wide and the winds gentle on the golf course in heaven.
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