Theodore Decker: A new year brings solemn reminder that tomorrow is not guaranteed
In a matter of a few hours on Wednesday, I learned of the deaths of two former colleagues.
Irmarie Jones and Reggie Sheffield died early Wednesday, separated by hundreds of miles in distance and nearly four decades in age.
They didn't know each other, as far as I know, but I suppose it is possible they crossed paths at some point. Both had roots in New England, specifically Massachusetts, and print journalism is a tight and interwoven field wherever you go.
Irmarie was already a legend when I joined the staff of The Recorder in Greenfield, Massachusetts, my first job out of college in 1992. She wrote a regular column, "Just Plain Neighbors," and I can best relate her to central Ohio by saying she had about the same cachet and devoted following that longtime Dispatch columnist John Switzer enjoyed.
Irmarie was a local institution, a genuinely kind person, and a committed community journalist. There's a picture of her taken in the newsroom in the 1970s, seated at a keyboard with a visor perched on her head and a pipe tucked in the right corner of her mouth.
She died at age 97, and knowing her personality I imagine she had packed about as much life into those years as anyone could muster. Honestly, when I saw her obit my first thought was, "Wow! Irmarie was still going strong after all these years?"
Reggie's death was another matter.
Reggie, I'd learned, had suffered a stroke earlier in the week and died Wednesday morning. He was 61. You'd have guessed he was 10 years younger.
I was a cops reporter in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when Reggie joined the staff of The Patriot-News as our new county courts reporter. The longtime county courts reporter, my dear friend Pete Shellem, had moved to the federal courts beat, in what editors hoped would afford him more time and freedom to pursue the investigative reporting at which Pete excelled.
Reggie was a character, and that's saying something in a print newsroom. We had something to talk about right away, as we both had worked at small daily newspapers in coastal Massachusetts fishing towns.
Reggie had a sharp wit and a keen nose for BS. I always thought there was a casual elegance about him too, a description you might find funny if you ever enjoyed his irreverent sense of humor and, ahem, colorful language. But I swear to you, he could make a tempest of the naughtiest words somehow sound refined.
I'm terrible at staying in touch with people and hadn't talked to Reggie in years. I knew he was no longer at The Patriot-News. I knew he loved being a dad, and still was a whiz in the kitchen. I didn't know until last week that he and his wife, Lana, had taken up farming in rural northeast Pennsylvania. And I cracked up when I saw the Facebook pictures of Reggie in Carhartt overalls, literally digging through a load of BS with a pitchfork.
I read the tributes to Reggie online. One friend noted "that devilish smile of his," and Reggie did indeed give you the feeling that he was always up to some sort of mischief. But it was a remark by Spero Lappas, a longtime criminal defense attorney in central Pennsylvania, that caught my eye:
"If there is a newsroom in heaven, Reggie and Pete Shellem are getting ready to stir up some s--- tonight," he wrote.
I've written about Pete before. He died by suicide in 2009, at the age of 49.
As time passes we all experience more of these lightning strikes. Some are distant enough to generate somber head shakes and fleeting introspection. Others land closer, leaving our emotional landscape blasted, scorched.
I keep coming back to an early spring day in Harrisburg. Reggie, Pete and I went to a chicken place up on Allison Hill for lunch and toted our white foam containers to nearby Reservoir Park to eat. I feel like there was someone else with us, but I cannot for the life of me remember who.
I do remember that it was a little too cold to be sitting outside, and that Reggie razzed me mercilessly about my fear of hot sauce. When it comes to hot sauce I am still a big chicken, but I credit Reggie with goading me to greater appreciate liquid fire.
It's hell growing old, we say.
We say this usually while grumbling about the most minor of ailments.
We say this as if a ripe old age is promised to us.
We say this, forgetting in the moment, that the alternative to growing old is so much worse.
@Theodore_Decker
This article originally appeared on The Columbus Dispatch: Irmarie Jones, Reggie Sheffield deaths remind life is fleeting
