Me and Timmy Mcgee

“Life is a great surprise. I do not

see why death should not be an even greater one.”

-- Vladimir Nabokov 1899-1977: “Pale Fire” (1962)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I first met Tim Mcgee around 1960. Our family, the Tessiers, had moved from what was then French Morocco in North Africa to Marquette, Michigan. We lived in the Elizabeth Apartments on 123 West Ridge Street (that space is now the parking lot just west of the Peter White Public Library). Right below and behind our house was St. John’s elementary school, where my brothers, sister, Nancy, and I, attended grades 1 – 8.

One of my first friends, Gary Martin, lived right next to SJS on Bluff Street. And so it was the Martin and Tessier boys would play guns together in the woods behind the Northland Hotel, and Gary and myself, Randy, became fast friends. At the time, I thought Hoot Martin, Gary’s dad, was just about the biggest, strongest, hardest working guy (he delivered coal) in the world. He was like a real life “Big Bad John.” Never drank or swore, although he did have a stash of “Argosy,” “True,” and “Stag” magazines hidden away above his workshop.

Both of us being Catholics, you might think Gary also attended St. John’s, after all the school was right next door to his house. Not so, for you see, Gary went to St. Peter’s, which, while not far away, landed him with an entirely different cohort of pals, one of which was Timothy Mcgee.

It was at the Bishop Baraga Roller Rink that Gary introduced Tim and I, and that began a life long friendship that saw us move from our boyhood days of peanut butter/mustard sandwiches and Suicides (a Coke, 7 Up, and Orange pop mix); to our 20s and 30s, those headier times of entrepreneurial schemes, sports, and music, bachelor basketball and golf; into our 40s and beyond, a time of family and watching our children grow up; and finally to this.

From the beginning, Tim and I had a special, but simple, unspoken bond: we were always each other’s biggest fans. Whenever I lost confidence in the world, or myself, Mcgee was there with support and encouragement. Our mutual admiration society never faltered, and it served us well. While I have always had a passion for music, it has taken many years to achieve even moderate skills at playing and singing. I say this because in those early days, Mcgee was always supportive and genuinely interested in what I was doing, no matter how bad it sucked. But it wasn’t just about me. It was about our group, “Walrus,” as well. I remember one time we had a gig at “Uncle Otto’s Ballroom” in Rhinelander, Wisconsin. Mcgee volunteered to chauffer some of us in his Corvair. Right after leaving Marquette the gas line sprung a leak. No problem, Tim took a piece of chewing gum and plugged the hole. That patch job got us all the way there and back. When we moved to Ann Arbor in 1972, Tim came along. He was part roadie, songwriter (Rosie Palm Blues), and overall group mentor.

I always marveled at Tim’s athleticism, innovative ideas, and devotion to his friends. His skill at cards, magic, pool, and working with his hands in general, never failed to fascinate and intrigue me and whoever else was around. One time we walked into the pool hall in the Michigan Union and staged a scene right out of “The Hustler.” He was Fast Eddie and I was his money-man. I pulled out a wad of ones wrapped in a $50 bill and challenged all comers to play some 9 Ball with my man. We won. In fact, turns out he beat a dude that - unbeknownst to us at the time - was a highly ranked amateur in Michigan. Like many who crossed the Bridge before him -- but lasting longer than most -- he finally succumbed to the call of the north and returned to the Queen City.

For a time he had a store in the old Monkey Wards on Washington Street, where he offered up beautifully crafted original pieces. Whether it involved wax, wood, or glass, Tim was always making things. The Birdseye maple pool cues, driftwood sand candles, and Redwood tables he made at various stages of his life stand as physical symbols of the unique person he was. His capacity to adapt to whatever circumstance confronted him; his commitment to family and friends; his willingness to help a stranger; his upbeat attitude in the face of the worst; these qualities are emblematic of the indefatigable spirit he’s engendered in all of us who knew him.

Had I the skills to write a poem like Auden’s, I wouldn’t have to fumble with such a wholly inadequate prose narrative as above to convey my deep, and now anguished, affection for Mcgee.

Love & Peace, Mcgee -- Randy