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A Tribute — and a Warning

Bob Scharn standing with statue of Captain Jack Sparrow

This is a tribute to a great man. It’s also about COVID-19 hitting close to home.

Bob Scharn was a giver.

He gave unlimited love to his wife and son and unlimited time as leader of my children’s Boy Scout troop.

He gave everything he had to everyone. The troop kids were his kids. Those kids have all grown into impressive young men. My older son is an Eagle Scout today thanks in no small part to Bob’s encouragement and guidance.

He was kind and patient to the core. I never once saw him raise his voice or lose his cool when the Scouts became a handful.

He also laughed at all my jokes, appreciating that obnoxiously bad ones were a right of passage for dads everywhere.

You could talk to him about anything. He could talk politics without letting his passions get the better of him. When he talked about Marvel movies and comics, his passions were clear from his endless supply of facts and figures. But whenever he shared anything, he was humble.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever known a more humble guy. That’s no overstatement.

Three weeks ago, Bob entered the hospital with COVID-19. His wife and son had come down with it as well but were able to recover at home. His was a more serious case. In the three weeks since, his wife and son have provided daily updates. Some days Bob held his own and it even looked like his lungs were clearing up.

Then things got worse. He needed a ventilator and dialysis.

Finally, last night, his son delivered the heartbreaking news that Bob’s body couldn’t take it any longer. He is now part of that bitter statistic — another American death in a pandemic that continues to spiral beyond control.

Bob has the eternal thanks of my family, and our hearts go out to his wife, Colleen, and son, Matthew.

Both are strong and will endure. Matthew will no doubt make his father proud many times over.

I know others who have fought COVID-19. Fortunately, they have recovered. Bob’s death is a punch to the gut.

A warning for all of you: Be careful. Limit your contact with people. Stay out of crowds. And for God’s sake, wear a mask.

If your family wants to have a gathering and someone is worried that doing so is too great a risk, don’t discount their concern.

By all accounts, the Scharns had been careful to avoid this.

To those tempted to use this post as license to spout conspiracy theories about how this isn’t really a pandemic but a government ploy to lord over the masses and change the outcome of an election, I have two words for you.

But I won’t say them here.

Bob wouldn’t have. He was better than that.

Bob Scharn standing with statue of Captain Jack Sparrow
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Rest Easy, Flan

The last time I saw Kevin Flanagan (his friends called him “Flan”) was at a bar about a decade ago.

We had been in touch after years without contact and were trying to reconnect. That night, his wry sense of humor was as sharp as I remembered from our days growing up in Revere’s Point of Pines. The evening was the result of our talking on the phone after 20 years. He reached out to me, and I remember the voicemail he left clearly:

“Mr. Brenner, I just want to say sorry for being such a punk when we were kids and for taking so long to call you.”

We had a lot of laughs that night. I went home, and I haven’t seen him since.

Tuesday, I was informed of his passing.

Mood Music:

After the initial shock, the sadness settled in. My mind rewound to memories of days spent smoking on Revere Beach, bantering on the bus to and from the Voke, where we were briefly in the same shop, and the summer we hid behind boxes in my father’s warehouse, avoiding work and smoking, as always.

He was always in my orbit growing up, straight back to elementary school. He grew up a few streets from mine. He was among the friends who tried to offer me sympathy when my brother died in 1984.

We fought a lot as kids, mostly because we were both awkward and would sometimes pick on someone else to make ourselves feel better. At one point when we were around 16, I boasted to my under-the-bridge friends that I could take him in a fight.

They held me to it. They brought the two of us down onto the beach, carved a boxing ring into the mud and we went at it for a good hour. We didn’t really fight, mind you. We just circled each other, waiting for someone to throw the first punch.

Flan and I smoked a lot of cigarettes behind this wall, photographed during a recent visit to the old neighborhood.

We worked out those kinks as we got older. We settled into a pattern of smoking cigarettes on the boulders behind the sea wall at Carey Circle, occasionally drinking. He was a regular in my basement, which sometimes resembled a neighborhood bar for minors.

Then he went his way and I went mine.

Turns out he’d been living in Atkinson, N.H. — the next town over from me — for years.

I’m glad he came back in my life, if only for a little while. You can never have too many good friends, and he certainly was one.

Until next time, Flan, rest easy.

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Candlelight Vigil for Mike Nicoloro (UPDATED)

Update: The details below reflect a change in schedule and location for the candlelight vigil. The change is apparently due to another event happening at Haverhill Stadium at the time Mike’s vigil was originally scheduled.

A quick update on the passing of Mike Nicoloro: A candlelight vigil will be held for him Monday, 6-9 p.m. at Plugs Pond in Haverhill. This event is free. Folks are asked to bring candles and happy faces to remember him. Anyone with photos should bring them, also. *NO BALLOONS DUE TO LATEX ALLERGIES*

A family member of Mike’s told me his funeral service will be Tuesday at 11 a.m. at the Riverview Cemetery in Groveland.

Here’s his full obituary.

CandlelightYoga_000

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When Life and Death Dance on Eggshells

I mentioned yesterday that my father is bedridden and that things aren’t looking good. I’ve lost count of how many times in the last four years we’ve gathered as a family, thinking he was at the end.

Each time he’s bounced back, like some unseen force keeps pulling him back for a few more rounds.

Mood music:

When I visited him last Sunday, he was too tired to talk much. He just wanted to sleep. I’ve seen him that way many times, but this time I got the sense that it’s getting harder for him to perk up. He’s said many times that he doesn’t want to live like this and be a burden to others.

But he keeps hanging on.

He wants to make sure his affairs are in order and that he leaves his family with the tools to survive, specifically, financial tools. Part of me feels like he should be allowed to leave, to be free of his broken body once and for all. Part of me respects him for being such a survivor, even when life doesn’t seem worth surviving.

I know that how this ends will be up to God. We can hope for things all we like, but God makes the final call.

It’s hard as hell for us mortals to sit around and accept that. We want to do something, to make some kind of plan and see it through, whether it’s family wanting to know the full path ahead or my father wanting to maintain some control, to run the timetable and tie up loose ends.

Although we know how little control we have, we continue to cling to our hopes and impulses. It’s an uncomfortable place to be. It will sort itself out, because it always does. I’m just praying for the strength to do what God wants of me.

If I figure out how to do that, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, any prayers for my father are appreciated.

silhouette of a man kneeling in prayer