We're Glad We Knew You

The last time I saw him, it was only for a brief moment – less than a minute. Had I known it would be our last conversation, I would have made it last longer. But at that moment, I was busy, he was busy, and we had about thirty seconds to say, "Hey, how you doing?" And then we were both on to other things.

A week later, he died.

His name was Brad M. Crochet, and he was an exceptional guy; a man of character, honest and honorable. He was the kind of person who, even if you weren't close friends, he enriched your life. He had a way of putting people at ease and making people feel important. Brad was eminently likable, with no mystery, no ulterior motives about him. He was polite, respectful, always interested in what other people wanted to talk about; the kind of person anyone would be happy and fortunate to have as a friend.

Brad was a whirlwind kind of guy; he always seemed to be moving at full speed, with things to accomplish. He was catlike, smoothly flowing along, seeing everything, hearing everything, leaving no damage in his wake. Every encounter with him was a highpoint of the day - a fun and pleasant experience. This guy left everyone smiling.

The whirlwind paused when you stopped to talk, and then you had his full attention. It might be a brief, two-minute snatch of conversation, or, it could be an earnest, yet relaxed discussion about any number of topics. Regardless of the length or the circumstances, after a conversation with Brad it was impossible not to walk away smiling.

Many of us didn't know he suffered from depression. Looking back, we see the overcompensation he displayed, but at the time, at least for me, I didn't recognize it. I'm not a doctor or an expert on depression, and it never occurred to me that Brad suffered. Even had I known, I probably wouldn't have said anything; not wanting to butt into Brad's personal life.

Although Brad was always in in high gear, he always - I mean always - took the time to listen – even if, as was our last meeting, just for a few seconds. If you wanted to speak with him, you had his undivided attention. It didn't seem to matter how busy he was; he had the singular quality of being able to bring everything to a smooth halt so he could talk with you without distraction. If you stopped to talk with him, he made you feel as though there was nothing he would rather be doing at that moment than listening to you.

He seemed to want to be friends with everyone, and I'm certain it was because he was interested in what others were doing and he cared about them. He wasn't pushy or intrusive – he just wanted to make friends and participate, however briefly, yet positively, in friends' lives.

Brad and I talked most often about writing. He knew I had been a writer for years, and he would stop me to ask questions about the process, how I went about writing, and what I was writing about. He always listened intently, and it seemed to me that he was mentally filing my comments for later consideration and use.

After a few months, he told me he was working on a writing project, but he didn't elaborate. Then, about a year later, he told me he was writing a book about his Louisiana and Cajun family heritage. I didn't find out until after his death how hard he had worked on this book – the interviews with family, diving into the history of his relatives and the history of the area where they lived. I bought that book, and although it was specific to his family, it was a funny, enjoyable read (as were his two subsequent books.)

After his three books, I looked forward to the next one, but it wasn't to be.

We go through our lives hoping for the best, and many of us rarely think about losing friends or family to early death. When it happened with Brad, it was, of course, shocking. It is a cliché to say that his death left a void, but I don't know any clever way to put it, other than that. Brad's death was a gut punch to those who knew him.

Looking back, I smile at the memory of Brad's friendship. I smile at the memory of the pleasant, often fun conversations we had. I smile when I think of the purposeful way he walked down the halls of the school where we both taught – a unique, Brad only sort of walk. I smile when I picture in my mind, his expressive face and eyes – a look that spoke volumes; a look that I always read as, Hey friend, I'm happy to see you! What would you like to talk about today? It's a look I'll never forget because I knew it was sincere.

Brad Crochet was a remarkable person; a man of character, a unique personality. We are immeasurably better off for having known him.

Author’s note: This piece was first published in March 2019, almost a year after Brad died. It took me that long to compose just exactly the right things to say about this guy - one of the very best people I’ve ever known. RIP, brother - you are truly missed by me and SO MANY others.

LTM

Larry Manch is an author, teacher, guitar player, freelance writer, and columnist. His books include: 'Twisted Logic: 50 Edgy Flash Fiction Stories', 'The Toughest Hundred Dollars & Other Rock & Roll Stories','A Sports Junkie', 'The Avery Appointment', 'Between the Fuzzy Parts', and 'Jonathan Stephens Is Just A Kid'. His books are available in paperback and e-book.

He writes about sports for Season Tickets, food and travel on Miles & Meals, and music/guitars on The Backbeat.

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