Sam Gronning: In Memoriam

For the past ten years that I have known Sam Gronning, he has always wanted three things: 1.) To fuck Heather Locklear, 2.) To live forever, and 3.) If he had to die, he would die while fucking Heather Locklear.

Needless to say, to my knowledge, Sam never did get to fuck Heather Locklear, even in his death, which occurred this morning, at the age of 67.

Sam Gronning was a locksmith by trade, but he was also an avid skydiver, a published author, a former gravedigger, a French food connoisseur, and the narrator of the independent film Stagbunny. He was a staunch Republican, a fiercely funny storyteller, a harshly honest judge of character, and one of the best friends and most trusted mentors I have ever known.

The Sam you see in this picture is the Sam that I have known for the last decade, the entirety of my adult life. Always armed with his vest, packed with his unfiltered menthol cigarettes, his cell phone (which constantly vibrated with new jobs), and a pocket-sized copy of the U.S. Constitution, Sam could be found drinking coffee at a table at Dori Lou's or The Flying J, and ready for hours of conversation about life, love, movies, politics... whatever his table-mates, who were often my friends and I, wanted to discuss.

Politics and world events were frequent topics of Sam's debate and conversation. I was sitting at coffee at the French bakery with Sam on September 9, 2001, when Sam predicted the terrorist attack that would occur two days later. I was sitting in his living room the day that President Bush landed on that aircraft carrier; I remember saying "That bastard's going use that footage to get re-elected, isn't he?" to which Sam replied "I certainly fucking hope he does!" Sam was a staunch conservative, and his television was tuned to FOX News twenty-four hours a day. We never saw eye-to eye on anything remotely political, but somehow I still found myself sitting on his couch, sometimes for hours at a time, watching The O'Reilly Factor and bumming smokes, debating the issues, listening to endless stories, and learning. Sam is responsible for much of my education as a human being.

If there's anyone that I could call an adopted father figure, it's Sam. He once loaned me 50 bucks so I could pay a speeding ticket on time. He was critical of almost everyone, sometimes to hurt feelings. He once called me out for "smoking too much dope," and he was right. When Gina Giles broke my heart at age 19, it was Sam that I called, bawling like a girl. "Come on over, bud, we'll talk it out," he said. He called everyone "bud," especially when he didn't know someone's name.

I loved going on jobs with Sam and watching him open cars and collect checks. Sam taught me how to get into locked cars, but every time I lock my keys in, I can't get it quite right without his golden touch. I was there when Sam first saw Transformers, and famously claimed that "Shia LaBeouf is the new Heather Locklear," to riotous laughter and ribbing. I once asked Sam to play me one of his favorite songs, then watched in amazement as he cued up Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop," dancing along in his chair and singing along to every word. Sam promised me that he would take me skydiving, and I regret never finding the time for it. Sam is the very definition of living life to its fullest, living every day exactly how you want to, and never looking back.

I lost touch with Sam over the last few years when I moved to Laramie, but I was lucky enough to get to meet him for coffee this last April. He had lost a lot of weight, and his instantly-recognizable voice had faded, but he retained the wry, wise spirit that I knew and loved. I'll never forget the last piece of advice that he gave me, in a conversation about the theory of the quarter-life crisis: "That thing that all guys go through at around 25," he said, "It's not a crisis, it's an epiphany." Goddamn, Sam. Bing-fucking-go.

Sam Gronning was one of the smartest, wittiest, wiliest, and most genuine men that ever walked the face of the earth. For many years, he was like family to me, and I will miss him more than can be expressed in these words, and I know I am not alone. There are hundreds of like-minded 20- and 30-somethings out there who have spent many an hour receiving an education from Sam Gronning, and there are thousands of stories out there like the ones I've been thinking about all day. Sam may not have died in the arms of Heather Locklear, but I'll be damned if he didn't achieve immortality, in the hearts and memories of the countless young people that sat and drank coffee with him. In that sense, Sam will indeed live forever.

There will always be an empty seat at the table for you, Sam. We love you, and we'll miss you.

Rest in peace, bud.

Dog

Living with a dog again
made me think a lot about

packs,

and what it means to sleep in a pile
just because you need to feel
touch.

My sister had dishes in the cupboard
that were handed down from my
mother
and when I ran my finger around the edge of a bowl
in the soapy dishwater, I was a
child
again.

And when she left,
at long last,
the pack
was broken for the last time.

And that is what terrifies me the most.
The solitude
of dogs

without their packs,
howling at the dusty, empty moon.

"my compass spins, the wilderness remains."

Smell that summer
breathe it in
sharp, like a needle
diving through thread

smell that Summer
perched on the edge

on the walk to my car
three a.m. and the
stars are out

I'm taking a shortcut
through the park

a rabbit gets caught
in the spotlight
of a motion detector
and I'm in his light

our shadows
look quietly
at each other.

he bounds beside me
his path
clear ahead of him
in the grass.

He's going North.
Find that star, kid.

The True North.

asleep
in a field of bedsheets
her Sister, Sapphire
in the next room

the rabbit bounds
into a field of green
grass
i dodge in
following,

Cut a new path
in the park
cut it North,

True North
in the grass

Darlin'

And every rain-
drop
was named "Darlin'."

But not
every rain-
drop
hits the earth
to the beat
of my song

like
the storm
that's fallin' now.

sonnet for O.

o how shall i lament each passing day?
each arc of every journey of the sun?
but with these thoughts of age and of decay
and wasted breaths of air -- what we become
is callous and unholy -- but the thoughts
that fill the space behind this troubled mind
are filled with -- O! -- a face i ne’er forgot
and can’t forget, nor will, nor would I try.
And so -- lamenting each and every day
becomes an hourglass -- each grain of sand
another tum’bling second toward the way
it feels to kiss your mouth -- to feel your hand.
We can’t forget -- it’s not the sun doth move
But us -- the earth -- and them -- then me + you.

"Why do we read literature?"

So here’s
where we stand
at this point
in the story --

Protagonist makes bold claims,
draws resentment from Zeus.
Scene is interrupted by the squealing of tires
(on wet asphalt).

William Shakespeare enters.
Delivers love sonnet written
years ago, smiles,
Exits, pursued by bear.

The Chorus sings of broken embraces,
wrath of the
(lower-cased) gods.
Hubris. Umbrage. Defiance.

Tragic Soliloquy.
Catharsis brings under-
standing. Redemption,
transformation. Humility.

The Heroine
is reborn -- from watery grave.
Protagonist stands
unharmed in the

Mist, his hands
red with the blood
of forty thousand brothers.
[V.i.254–256]