(Editor’s note: Welcome to Living Eulogies. All recollections are accurate in the author’s mind only. Apologies in advance to everyone who has different recollection of the same events. Send all complaints to Tony Hawk. Reapply every two hours during exposure.)
Something that’s becoming increasingly apparent to me as I go about doing these Living Eulogies is the shifting cast of characters that were a part of my life growing up. This seems to be an enigma in a school district known globally (a minor exaggeration) for its cliquishness.
Since graduation and moving on with life by high-tailing it off the East Coast for the friendlier confines of the Midwest, I’ve encountered people who talk about the cliques at their schools, to which I have repeatedly said — long before it was a meme — the equivalent of “Hold my beer.” Yet to say that I was a part of any of these cliques back in the day, I’m realizing, isn’t true.
Rather, it seems, I floated in and out of various cliques, often simultaneously, and never quite belonged to any of them. That’s something that has followed me into adult life, and not all for the greater good of yours truly, though that’s a topic for a different section of this website, I believe.
Which leads me to talk about Pat Gmelin.
For a time in seventh-grade, my closest friends were Dan Griffin and Pat Gmelin. We made for an extremely odd trio. Pat was well on his way to becoming what we who experienced him at Fox Lane High School remember him being — an incredibly goofy and unique individual who found the glories of pot long before it became more societally acceptable. I can vouch for the fact that it wasn’t the weed that made Pat, Pat. Pat was simply Pat, and, if anything, the weed merely accentuated who he was.
Like many of these Living Eulogies seem to say, I’m not quite sure exactly how Pat and I became friends. Nor am I sure how Dan, Pat and I started to hang together. But there was a time in seventh grade in which the three of us were inseparable during our shared lunch/recess time, hanging out on the rocks between West and East houses. There, we would talk about all sorts of stupid seventh-grade stuff. Much of the time involved keeping the reins pulled tight on Pat’s goofier side while simultaneously encouraging him to do the craziest stuff our little middle school minds could think of.
Pat was always game.
This trio wasn’t long-lasting, but it was fun while it did. Pat started to drift away from Dan and I as he got more into the skateboard culture. I’m pretty sure by the time middle school ended, we weren’t what anyone would consider friends. But it was always fun to watch Pat be Pat in high school. He had a knack for saying and doing the stupidest, funniest stuff. I don’t think Pat had a mean bone in his body. He had this zest for living that I found admirable then and still do, as I watch him living what seems to be a great life in Hawaii.
I remember Pat being really good on a skateboard and quite accomplished with a Hacky Sack. He had an infectious smile that involved his whole face, scrunching up his eyes to mere slits. He was surprisingly strong, which I learned the hard way during the wrestling unit in Middle School gym. That I had two dudes like Dan and Pat backing up my big mouth proved advantageous on more than one occasion in seventh grade.
Pat is a great example of someone in my life with whom I shared a brief time as close friends and who, sadly, became another stranger, just a face in the crowd by the time graduation came. That said, I’m glad to have shared the time we did and look back on it with smiles and laughter.
UP NEXT: A teacher who inspired.
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