Damn Fine

One day at work, I was asked to get a workstation set up for the new guy who was coming back to the US after a couple of years in London.  I hadn't heard the name Jonathan Markowitz before, but didn't think anything of it.  I figured he'd be just like all the other Americans who returned after working in the London office: an arrogant, uber-entitled, over-educated nerd with an ego the size of the solar system.  I didn't meet Jon until he'd been in the office for a few days, but I remember it clearly.  Not only did he come up and introduce himself, he thanked me for setting up his work area for him.

OK, I was very wrong.  He was NOT like all the others.  Little by little, we became friends. We hung out after work and sometimes on weekends, playing pool, drinking beers and sharing lots of laughs.  I never lost my awe.  I marveled at his uncanny ability to see what was bothering a person and go right to the heart of it.   With only a few sentences he could soothe the snippy out of a harried waitperson, or calm a building owner who thought his project was off-track.  I loved how he could come to work with the grease from his weekend tinkerings still under his fingernails, shirttail untucked and no necktie, and go into a critical client meeting without one iota of self-consciousness or worry.  But that was Jon.  He knew those trappings had nothing to do with his job or his ability or him.  And he was right.

I was sad when he and his family moved away from the Bay Area.  The opportunity to start the Seattle office was an amazing one, and I knew they would be successful.  But their home was close to mine, we got together often, and I knew would miss them.  And I did.  And I do.

What strikes me most about what everyone says about Jon is that everyone says the same thing.  Even though he knew all kinds of people, he didn't chameleon.  No matter how we came to know him, we all met the same person.  How comfortable he was being him.  How everyone who met him thought he treated them special - only to find out he made us all feel special.  How we all have grown and emotionally prospered from having known him.  How dry but hysterical his wit was.  How he was just a damn fine human, in all his roles: son, brother, husband, father, mentor, boss, friend.  He was always his best Self and he shared that Self fully with all of us blessed enough to have spent time with him.

I know the place in my kitchen where I stood reading the text message telling me Jon was gone.  It wasn't true.  It was a mistake.  I called the person who'd sent the text and as he spoke, I felt sick.  My gut tightened and twisted and all of a sudden, the world felt different.  There was a hole that hadn't been there before.

I miss him.

The Old Pickup and The 94 Bus

The Old Pickup And The 94 Bus

Well, I hadn't seen Him on the bus for quite awhile, but that's not unusual on the Bainbridge 94 route -- people change shifts, job locations, go on vacation -- all the usual things that happen in life.

He was articulate and had a dry sense of humor -- fun to banter with and never at a loss for a quick and thoughtful comeback.

I told Him once that I had an old 66 GMC pickup that I was looking to give to someone. It had been to South America and back and had been given to me by some Islanders who lived at Fort Ward. It was used for the Boy Scout Christmas tree pickup, to set up the Boy Scout hot dog booth every 4th of July, and to haul the neighborhood junk to Rotary or Vincent Road. Otherwise, it just sat under the cedar trees on Skiff Point -- He sounded interested. I told Him that the only condition was that it had to stay on Bainbridge Island.

He didn't say much at the time, but a few weeks later, He stopped me on the boat and said He knew someone who might want the pickup -- a project for a man and his teenage sons to do some "tinkering." Thanks to Him, a deal was soon struck and the old pickup found a new and caring home on the Island. Old pickups seem to endure.

I ran into the new owner on the 6:20 boat tonight (6-23-08) and reminded him that there were still a couple of parts sitting at my house that needed to be picked up. He said, "Did you know that He's gone?" I asked him what he meant and he said, "He was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago. Fortunately, His son was able to walk away from it."

I was dumbfounded. I stammered a couple of the usual retorts, but it took the rest of the boat ride for it to sink in. No wonder I hadn't seen Him on the bus.

When I got the 94 tonight, I sat down next to Doug and across from the guy who always gets off just before the Jiffy Mart at Rolling Bay. As usual, everyone was jovial and glad to be heading home at the end of the day. I said, "You know the nice guy who always used to get off at Springwood, the one we haven't seen for a while?" They all remembered Him and said, "Yes." I said, "Well, He's gone," and they all understood.

The rest of the bus ride was silent as we all thought about Him and how we missed and would continue to miss His pleasant demeanor and smiling face.

Life goes on, even as many of us drop off by the side of the road. The most important thing always is whether we gave a good account of ourselves while we were here and whether those who knew us, intimately, or as casual acquaintances, are better for our presence and mourn our passing. All of us on the 94 mourn His passing and will remember Him as a man we were glad to know.

Robie G. Russell
Manitou Park

Thanks Jon

During the two and half days that I spent in the East Bay for Jon's service meeting and visiting with Jon's friends and family, I came away with a curiosity of Jon's life before college. I was moved by the tremendous showing of support at the funeral as the room was expanded and additional chairs were added for quite some time after the scheduled start of the service. There was clearly an interesting history to uncover from various angles, represented by the diverse groups brought together that day.

I instantly appreciated Jon's parents after a visit to their home. I was honored to meet them and to meet Jon's brothers David and Ethan, who gave glimpses of an intriguing home life where all three boys eventually migrated their bedrooms to the basement. As the oldest, Jon led the way and David and Ethan eventually joined him. Perhaps they were escaping the oppressive rule that all teenagers imagine, but how oppressive could their parents be to let them drift to the basement?

His mother, a music teacher, may have been the source of Jon’s patience in teaching. Jon and I shared a Mechanical engineering class at Penn. One evening, despite having finished his assignment, he accommodated my request for a study session where we would theoretically help each other. He told me he was done but we could still meet, and I did not bow out gracefully. I really needed the help. I was stuck, teetering between a pivotal point of enlightenment and another agonizing defeat at the hands of the Penn Engineering curriculum. In a matter of ten or fifteen minutes, in a matter of two, perhaps three different approaches at an explanation from Jon, I got it. Despite my degree, I am not an engineer and I could not begin to recall the details of the problem. But 23 years later, what I remember is that moment of graciousness. I think I now understand what it means to leave a legacy. If Jon was here today to hear me tell this story, he may not remember, but I will always remember and admire both the kindness and efficiency Jon displayed.

During the service, Jon’s father struggled to tell the story of a King whose son died before him. Jon’s father made an instant impression on me after just one meeting. He’s the kind of Dad that makes an impression. Not the kind of impression that allows one to easily categorize him, but a bold, provocative impression that leaves one wondering. This large man’s voice projects with operatic exuberance. And he requires others to do the same in order to be heard. If I were to take a wild stab, it seems that Jon’s rebel nature was largely attributed to, and perhaps approved with a subtle wink of an eye, by his father. Perhaps approval came in their shared appreciation for individualism. Albeit in their own separate approaches, they seemed to share this quality.

My wife and I have dozens of boxes of nice things from Crate and Barrel that we still have not opened since our wedding. And of the things we have opened and are using, I could not tell you where they came from. I know where the bird house came from. At our wedding, Jon and Sarah’s three children were already born. Now that we have two kids, I can appreciate the birdhouse and the logic behind it (not that he made this decision logically, but that after the fact it just makes sense). There’s symbolism in a miniature house, there’s individualism in gifting a birdhouse, there’s creativity leading steps ahead to kids who most certainly would appreciate a bird house. It’s a classic “elegant solution” of which Jon has had many in his life.

We all have a sense of Jon’s legacy from his role as a big brother, to his incredible wife and kids, to his and Sarah’s pioneering role with their company. We know and love him for his appreciation of all things mechanical, and his disdain for anything overly formal or not genuine. If Jon ever did take the time to think about his legacy, I’m not sure the simple things I appreciate most would have been on his list. No doubt Jon has had some remarkable and notable accomplishments in his life, but he made me understand that a legacy can simply be the small things that reveal who you are.

I've been empowered by spending time with Sarah, whose bravery will be a lasting inspiration. To Jessica, Jack, and Caleb, I’d like to say the following. It may be a few years before you understand what I have written in grown-up language.

When your gut feels like talking, don’t let your mind put it off. When I was 12, my mother passed away. I’ve always been conscious of a process of introversion for years to come. In a recent exploration with a health advisor, I was told there was something very forceful bottled up in my emotional center that needs to be let out. I thought time had slowly coaxed the extrovert back out, but this recent assessment suggests there’s more work to do. So guys, take inspiration and gratitude from your father, your mother, each other, your family and your friends. Always talk to them and thank them. Always talk to each other. Always, keep talking.

In our college fraternity we had a saying “Not four years, but a lifetime.” I always found it a bit over the top. Today, it seems like it doesn’t say enough - that a lifetime is too short. Andy flew in from Connecticut and Dan from Germany. They showed me the way during these two and a half days. Along the way we met Jon’s family, co-workers, and childhood friends. Each added yet another dimension to the story of Jon, as if to throw another pillow down to soften the impact of his all too short time with us. Thank you, Jon, for a splendid legacy!

Just some random memories....

Not a story, just a few impressions...

When I met Jon, I was a freshman in college and he was a junior. Those who know him will understand this about Jon: from the moment you met him, he treated you like an old friend. And as a freshman, that acceptance was welcome. I will always remember a smiling Jon greeting me at happy hour, behind those tinted glasses, "Hey there, Ca-risss!"

One year, we lived in the same house. Three sophomores (Dan, Dave and me) and three seniors (Stu, Andy and Jon). Jon was fascinated by an ancient gas-powered radiator in my bedroom. I remember he came up to study it, then concluded it was "perfectly safe" to use. He lit the pilot light and fired it up. With a loud whoosh, it came to life. You could peer in one end of the thing, and see blue flames burning inside the radiator. We never burned down, but boy did that thing make me nervous. "Nothing to worry about," he assured me.

During breaks, Jon and I were frequently the only ones in the house. He could always be counted on for conversation. And if there was nothing to be said, that was cool, not uncomfortable. I remember strolling through the darkness of our seemingly deserted neighborhood, kicking west-Philly debris, and stopping at the 7-11 with our scrounged-up pennies for a big gulp.

Jon and I were both frequently broke. The time our house was burglarized, we both lost some stuff, which sucked for both of us. But he didn't seem to let things like that bother him. I remember stumbling into the house with my duffel bag, back from a break. Stu said, "hey, didn't you have a stereo in your room?" Yep. "It's gone. They took Cheese's leather jacket, too." I marched up the stairs, and Jon was sitting there. He flashed me a grin, "Hey there, Carrr-isss!" And the message was simple: hey, its only stuff.

Please share any photos that you have - Thank you!

My 35 minute friend

The ferry we take to Seattle takes 35 minutes to cross the Puget Sound and it's quite common to get to know people only from your time together on "the boat."

Jon and I would chat on those mornings when we were waiting for the bus to pick us up at the end of Springwood to start our daily jaunt to Seattle. Jeff was usually there as well and it was a great way to start the morning.

In our last conversation he was trying to figure out how to build a stereo cabinet. Not a "media center" or a base for a 70"Plasma TV, just a regular old place to put a "HI FI". He was trying to figure out how to get his contractor saw to make cabinet-grade cuts without a decent blade or fence.

It really didn't seem to matter what the "problem" was, Jon was working to solve it. And I am quite sure he still is.

Robert

Would you like to add to this page?

I would love to have your thoughts, stories, and photos on this page as well. Click on my name David Markowitz to the right side of the screen under the heading "Contributors." That will bring up my email address. Write me and I will add you to our list of authors.

Bainbridge remembrance

As many of you know, there was a remembrance for Jon on Bainbridge Island on Sunday. It was really a beautiful get together and thankfully the bag pipes came after my little talk or I surely wouldn't have made it through. Bag pipes always pull on the strings of my heart. Sarah asked me to post my words, here they are:

For those of you who don’t know me, I am Jim McCulloch. This is my wife, Emil. We were neighbors of Jon’s and Sarah’s and the kids and we moved away about 18 months ago to Northern California. We were, however, much more than neighbors: we ate together, played together, watched each other’s kids, occasionally traveled together, and most importantly, lawn tractor raced together. So, as I talk about Jon and laugh a little, I want you to know we were close and I don’t take this lightly. However, I think Jon would want us all to lighten up – I know for certain that he would want me to.

When I think of Jon I smile. And I always have. A good part of our relationship was centered around humor. He and I, well mostly I, gave each other a lot of crap. The normal rule for us was that I would insult him and then Jon would fire back with the perfect retort – usually about 2 days later. It was always very good natured and I think he really enjoyed our bantering, but he was a bit handicapped by his good nature.

Jon was, above all other things, his own man. He didn’t fit any molds – at least the ones I know. He was an Ivy-league educated engineer without a hint of pretense who liked to work on lawn tractors in his spare time. I loved that about him. I’m sure Sarah loved it too, but I can attest that she was ready to sock Jon in the nose after the third lawn tractor arrived.

I think he was very comfortable in his own skin. He knew who he was, who he wasn’t and didn’t really care what you thought about him. I think because he was so comfortable with who he was that one of his great gifts is that he listened to you, and he asked about you, and had no agenda or work worries or angst to clutter his brain when he was talking to you. He really listened and so few people have that skill.

I found him to be very insightful about a lot of different things. Certainly never loud, but insightful and smart. He had that wry smile which seems to be the image of him that is sticking in my head the most. I wouldn’t say he was outgoing, but he wasn’t shy at all either, you know what I mean? And although he wasn’t terribly effusive, he was one of the best natured people that I have known.

To this day, I have never heard a bad word said about him. But when I think about it, he never had a bad word to say about anyone – other than me to my face. I must have told Emil 50 times, “I just love that guy”. Emil did too.

We both enjoyed working with our hands – he with cars and machinery, me with wood and building things. I think it was our bond. We rarely, I mean rarely, ever talked work. It was and is of secondary interest to me, and he most assuredly felt the same way. What was important to him was what you could do with your hands and what you could build or make – he was kind of old school that way.

It was a great comfort for me to have someone like Jon living down the street. He was solid. My wife could call him for help when I was out of town, and I knew he was there if and when we needed anything. Not that he and I asked each other for that much help as we both liked to complete our own projects, it was part of the satisfaction to get it done yourself. However, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him and his family and I know the reverse was true.

As you probably know, he was a world-class packrat and had a huge collection of what most would consider crap. He, on the other hand, would consider it to be something of value that he bought cheap, fixed up, and was then in perfect working order. He could look at one of tractors running and take pride in the fact that he made it run. He could be reminded of it over and over every time he started it. For him it was satisfaction I think. Zen and the art of anything with a motor maintenance. Going and buying something new had about as much appeal to him as a root canal. However, finding a diamond in the rough was hugely satisfying for him.

I also appreciated his, and Sarah’s for that matter, exact knowledge of my character. Friends that know you and can be brutally honest with you are true friends indeed. He knew that I am fairly uptight, fairly anal, and somewhat claustrophobic. He could always tell how I would be feeling about a particular situation (usually one with too many people in too small a space) and would look at me and laugh or smile or say something to me about it. I loved that. With Jon, I could be my good self or my idiot self, or anything in between, with no airs or filters or worry that I was going to offend him.

On to memories… Some of my fondest memories are as follows and in no particular order. I hope they are as amusing for you as they are for me, Sarah, and Emil, but I fear that without the nuances of our relationship as background you might not appreciate them as much as I do. Anyway, here goes:

Jack coming over to talk to me while I was building things. Jack would just prattle on about this and that (after he asked for a turkey sandwich, of course) and then after a couple of hours, Jon would come over and see what was going on. He might stay over a while and chat or have a beer, or I might go over to his house and see what he was working on. Some flavor of this happened nearly every weekend that it wasn’t raining.

I just might walk down to see what he was doing or working on. Maybe have a beer and chat with he and Sarah, maybe say hi to the kids, maybe just go back home.

Offering to get him a volume discount on cinder blocks for all of the tractors/cars he had in his yard. Cheaper by the pallet. This became a standard running joke.

Due to his penchant for junk, I combined the names Markowitz and Clampett to come up with Clampowitz. Remember the Clampett’s from the Beverly Hillbillies? I thought I was so clever when I told him this, and he just looked at me and shook his head – I don’t know for sure that he thought it was funny, but I gotta think he did. There is no way, however, that he wanted me to know that.

He would try to get mad at me sometimes if I was teasing him or teasing Sarah or teasing my wife, but he just couldn’t. He tried, but he couldn’t help but laugh. He said it was hard to be mad at someone who is so damn funny. If you know me, then you will know that I think that is potentially the best compliment anybody has ever given me.

The naps he took every weekend with his kids. I love the thought of him and the kids sacked out on the couch. It might just be my very best memory of Jon.

Lawn tractor races on Springwood Avenue. He, of course, won. He had the $5 tractor and I had the $4 tractor.

Me telling his kids to go ask their dad why their tree house wasn’t finished yet. He immediately knew that I had put them up to it and said, Thanks Jim.

There are many others, but you all might not appreciate them as much as I do.

I wish I could call him like I did about 4 months ago and say, Dude, I’m going to be in the city tonight – can you meet me for dinner? We had a great dinner, a fair amount of alcohol, our normal conversations, and we picked up right where we left off.

Jon was just a great, great guy and a big presence, someone I thought of fairly often and someone I will miss. Losing a close friend is in many ways worse that losing a family member. Friends like Jon and Sarah, for me, are/were the family we make for ourselves. .

more jon

I am moved by hearing of the echoing of my own feelings in the entries here. But most of all I loved hearing the stories about Jon. I guess I just need more Jon. I thought I would share a Jon story to hear some in return. When we were living in San Francisco we would start every saturday night at my house watching COPS and then head down to the local. One time, after a few pints, the talk somehow turned to gymnastics and jon said, "while you might not know it to look at me I'm very athletic when it comes to balance." "no way" I replied. "I bet you a beer that I can hold a handstand longer than you can", Jon challenged. I, being someone who was not going to back down a challenge although gymnastics is not my strong suit, promptly threw my hands to the floor and went up for what I can say was the longest handstand of my life. After four, maybe five seconds I started to loose it but had to milk it for all it was worth in case Jon was "on" that night. On the way down, I crashed into both the jukebox (skipping the song) and the pinball machine (tilting the game) before popping up triumphally to challenge Jon. He said in one comma free sentence. "What are you kidding I get dizzy bending over what kind of beer do you want"

Reflections

I lived with Jon his senior year (my sophmore year) of college. 6 of us lived in the house - Jon, Stu, Andy, Dan, Chris and myself - the 3 seniors - Jon, Stu and Andy - and the 3 sophmores - Dan, Chris and I. We really didn't know them well, nor they us, but it seemed like a good match given everyone's need for roommates and the fact that we were all pretty laid back guys. The situation worked out great. Jon in particular had such a way about him that made it seem like we had lived together forever after just a few weeks. His kind, gentle, happy nature went a long way to making that big West Philly row house full of college guys on a shady (and not because of the trees) 4100 block of Sansom St a real home. Some of us were tidier than others in the house - and I'll just say John wasn't on the tidier end of the spectrum. He was perhaps most renowned for his creativity on those days that we ran out of toilet paper - I guess that was the engineer in him. Of course those are the kinds of things you remember most vividly about college. When I told my sister that Jon had passed, she was deeply hurt. She remembers him well from the conversations they had when she would call me and he would answer. His sincerity and kindness came through so clearly even on the phone.

Since the days we lived together, over 20 years ago, Jon and I stayed in touch, though inconsistenly - a visit here, a phone call there, an e-mail at those milestone moments in our lives. Each time we connected the bond felt as strong as ever. Jon will always be dear to me and my heart goes out to all who he has touched.

Eulogy for Jon

Jon and I met on the school bus when we were just 12 years old. To say that we grew up together would be a bit of an understatement. We did, along with some of the other folks you see here. But it was really much more profound than that. We listened to music, we played ball, we learned to drive, we started talking to girls, those sorts of things; but mostly we just hung out and shared our lives - as we grew into men.

Jon has always been one of my best friends. He was honest, insightful, and direct in the way that only your closest friends can be. He was not one to ramble on; but to be sure, the he said always rang true. It came from that deep wisdom of his. Jon was his own man. Not a follower, nor a rebel for it's own sake. He always had a clear vision of what really mattered and ran his life from his stable, principled center.

Jon had a great love for his family and they were where he found the most profound comfort. By that I mean both his birth family and the new one that he built with Sarah. Being a few years ahead of me with children, I often sought his advice with my own small personal issues. He was a great friend to me.

For al of his depth and intellect, Jon was extremely easy going. Always up for a game of catch in the park or a drink at the local pub. I have so many memories of simple times spent with him, just laughing and joking around. I was counting on so many more.

In thinking about him these last few days; probably more clearly than ever, I have come to see just how much better my own life has been from knowing him.

I miss Jon.

Eulogy

At the funeral, these are the words that I said:

I want to take a few moments to honor my
brother Jonathan’s sense of humor. His
wife Sarah mentioned to me on the airplane
coming here that if it was Jonathan’s
particular style of joke and humor at the
office that brought the two of them
together, and that got me thinking a bit more
about it.
Jonathan had a unique and signature way
of telling a joke or a funny story. At the
age of 19 I flew back East for his
graduation from Penn and was astounded
that college had changed him - he was no
longer a California boy. He had picked up
this sharp-as-a-knife “suffer no fools”, very
Philadelphia, dry, East Coast, tell-it-like-it is,
wit. And It was very funny.
He would lean over to you real close at
unexpected times with raised eyebrows,
talking out of the side of his mouth in a low
voice, bringing you into the world of his
imperfect friends and their tragic and
hilarious misfortunes; a world of old cars
and clumsy lovers, tractor pulls, punk rock
and motorcycles.
Did Jonathan ever tell you of his cat
Oscar’s 5 nights stuck in a tree? Or his
college buddy who went to retrieve a
stolen car from a North Philly street corner?
Or how the neighbor trained his dog to stay
away from chickens? You really got to
know and love Jon through these stories.
Jonathan’s move to Washington separated
us physically but the more rural
environment really suited him. More and
more of his stories revolved around power
tools, farm animals, his latest finds on
Craig’s list, and his wife and three kids in
the middle of it all whom he loved dearly.
He just loved being “in the country”.
John was not the type of engineer who
toyed with lasers and writes computer
programs on the weekend.
When he wasn’t helping others in the
neighborhood with backyard projects, he
would scan the swap meets and classifieds
for broken power tools, pick-up trucks and
lawn tractors, because those were the
things he loved. Last I counted, John and
Sarah had four tractors in various states of
repair. One for each child, plus a spare.
There’s a story that Sarah tells of Jonathan
and another engineer driving to an
important business meeting when Jon pulls
suddenly off the road into a residential
neighborhood.
He gets out of the car, says “wait here” ,
and goes up to the front door, OUT pops
this chainsaw, Jonathan throws it into the
trunk, and off they go. All the engineer can
say is “are you out of your mind? what’s
this all about?” and Jonathan just says “I got
it for $5 off craigs list, isn’t it great?” They
get back from the meeting and Sarah asks,
how was the meeting, and he says fine,
fine, but check out this chainsaw!
I’m going to miss hearing stories of
Jonathan’s latest pickup truck or fixing
broken tools gotten for free. I’ll miss his
jokes and how he shared his humor with
me, cheered me up, and made me happy
we were part of the same family. I hope
you can take a moment today to share a
humorous story about Jon with a friend or
family member, cheer them up like he
cheered me up, and that you remember him
always.

Welcome

On April 20th, 2008 we lost my very dear brother Jonathan Markowitz in an automobile accident close to his home in Bainbridge Island, Washington.

In the days leading up to his funeral, we spent many, many hours with friends and relatives telling and retelling stories of Jon. This outpouring was a great comfort to me and to others. I am sure there are many more stories yet to be told.

After asking his wife Sarah's permission, I decided to start this blog so that we can easily share our memories and stories of Jonathan with each other. I am hoping that his children will be able to print this collection out in a few months time and have a lasting record to remember their father by.

From our entire family, thank you to all who have written, called, helped, or attended the funeral - your thoughts and prayers are strongly felt by all of us.