The Backroads of Heaven
In fact, just about everything about Kahuna was large. Even his car. In high school, he drove an enormous red Impala presumably crafted sometime in the 1970s specifically with Kahuna’s larger-than-life personality in mind. Nothing would make him happier than stuffing the giant vehicle with as many friends as possible. Friends like Jill (Sermersheim) Sicard, myself and a half dozen others would pile into the car and let Kahuna guide us on our next voyage. We would sing along to music, explore new backroads of Southern Indiana, cruise the “lap” in our hometown of Ferdinand, and jump out of the car at the town’s one stoplight and scramble into new seating positions before the light changed green. The Impala always had room for one more person—much like the size of Kahuna’s heart.
Most of the time, we had good clean fun. Every once in a while someone would do something stupid. That someone was usually me. One of my moments of poor judgement involved the use of Kahuna’s family-owned CB radio. Prior to cell phones, the CB radio was the device of choice for police officers and truck drivers to communicate on the road. If you were within a few miles of another person using a CB radio on the same channel, you could strike up a conversation or just listen in on other people talking. You could switch to different channels hoping to minimize the number of people listening in on your conversation, but there certainly was no such thing as a private conversation.
While crushed in the Kahuna cruiser with friends, using my best radio voice, I tried to find someone “with their ears on” who was willing to talk with us on the CB radio. My friends laughed as I continued with my bantoring trying to pick up an audience to play along with my childish games. On this particular adventure, I decided to add a little extra flare to solicit a reaction. Over the CB, I casually blurted out, “Hey, can someone out there buy us beer?”
At first, we heard static and really didn’t think anyone would reply. I repeated my request a few times as most of the people in the car laughed at my emboldened appeal.
Finally, rather clearly, a local police officer sharply responded: “I would not advise any such exchange.”
Even though I perfectly understood his comment, I pretended to not understand him and repeated, “Hey, can you buy us some beer?”
Everyone in the car thought I had lost my mind. “What are you doing?!” They sneered.
In a reassuring voice, I explained my calculated move, “Look, he doesn’t know who we are or which car we are in. So, let’s just play with him a bit.” As though the large Impala shielded us from anything bad, I confidently proclaimed, “We are in the Kahuna cruiser. Everything will be all right.”
The police officer replied, “Where would you like me to bring you the beer?”
“The cop thinks he is tricking us.” I said with excitement. “This is going to be great! I am going to send him all over the place.”
I quieted the commotion in our car, squeezed the CB button and commanded, “Meet us at the old lake.”
I tried to reassure my skeptical audience in the car of my fail-safe strategy. “Look, I’m going to send him to the old lake, but then change the plans and have him go to the forest, and then change again to someplace else. I’ll keep sending places until he grows tired and gives up.”
Even though some were skeptical of the plan, we cackled imagining our local police officer staked out at the old lake for a sting operation involving an oversized clown car full of teenagers looking for beer. We continued circling the lap hoping to witness the police car in hot pursuit. Sure enough as we neared the high school, we spotted the officer coming from the opposite direction, presumably headed for the old lake.
We turned down the radio, dropped the CB, and tried to look as studious as possible, hoping to roll past him in an unremarkable fashion. We steadily approached the oncoming police car in awkward silence, only to be blinded when he turned on his flashing lights on top of his car.
“You idiot!! We’re getting pulled over!” My friends chided.
I stared at the circling lights as if we were bandits fleeing a bank jobbery. I surveyed my surroundings hoping to find the button in the Kahuna cruiser that would make us turn invisible. There was no button. There was no magic shield. We were busted. I was busted.
Kahuna guided the Impala to the side of the road and waited for the angry-faced officer to approach the car. With a knot in my stomach, I whimpered to Kahuna the obvious truth, “It was my fault. I would take the blame.”
When the officer appeared at the window, Kahuna looked at him with his big puppy dog eyes and his infectious smile and pleaded, “We were just kidding.”
The officer directed him to follow him to his car, where we were later told he gave him a thorough scolding. I don’t know how he knew it was us (but it probably didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to eliminate the other five people in the town who owned a CB). I also don’t remember if Kahuna informed the police officer that the real villain was me. What I remember is Kahuna’s reaction when he entered the car after his reprimand. He didn’t toss me out of the car, punch me in the face, or even raise his voice. He simply got back in the car and flatly said, “Let’s not do that again.”
That was it. Nothing else bad happened. So, I learned that evening I was wrong about the Kahuna cruiser being our shield; the real magic came from our captain behind the wheel. Kahuna, not the car, had a way of making everything all right.
While crushed in the Kahuna cruiser with friends, using my best radio voice, I tried to find someone “with their ears on” who was willing to talk with us on the CB radio. My friends laughed as I continued with my bantoring trying to pick up an audience to play along with my childish games. On this particular adventure, I decided to add a little extra flare to solicit a reaction. Over the CB, I casually blurted out, “Hey, can someone out there buy us beer?”
At first, we heard static and really didn’t think anyone would reply. I repeated my request a few times as most of the people in the car laughed at my emboldened appeal.
Finally, rather clearly, a local police officer sharply responded: “I would not advise any such exchange.”
Even though I perfectly understood his comment, I pretended to not understand him and repeated, “Hey, can you buy us some beer?”
Everyone in the car thought I had lost my mind. “What are you doing?!” They sneered.
In a reassuring voice, I explained my calculated move, “Look, he doesn’t know who we are or which car we are in. So, let’s just play with him a bit.” As though the large Impala shielded us from anything bad, I confidently proclaimed, “We are in the Kahuna cruiser. Everything will be all right.”
The police officer replied, “Where would you like me to bring you the beer?”
“The cop thinks he is tricking us.” I said with excitement. “This is going to be great! I am going to send him all over the place.”
I quieted the commotion in our car, squeezed the CB button and commanded, “Meet us at the old lake.”
I tried to reassure my skeptical audience in the car of my fail-safe strategy. “Look, I’m going to send him to the old lake, but then change the plans and have him go to the forest, and then change again to someplace else. I’ll keep sending places until he grows tired and gives up.”
Even though some were skeptical of the plan, we cackled imagining our local police officer staked out at the old lake for a sting operation involving an oversized clown car full of teenagers looking for beer. We continued circling the lap hoping to witness the police car in hot pursuit. Sure enough as we neared the high school, we spotted the officer coming from the opposite direction, presumably headed for the old lake.
We turned down the radio, dropped the CB, and tried to look as studious as possible, hoping to roll past him in an unremarkable fashion. We steadily approached the oncoming police car in awkward silence, only to be blinded when he turned on his flashing lights on top of his car.
“You idiot!! We’re getting pulled over!” My friends chided.
I stared at the circling lights as if we were bandits fleeing a bank jobbery. I surveyed my surroundings hoping to find the button in the Kahuna cruiser that would make us turn invisible. There was no button. There was no magic shield. We were busted. I was busted.
Kahuna guided the Impala to the side of the road and waited for the angry-faced officer to approach the car. With a knot in my stomach, I whimpered to Kahuna the obvious truth, “It was my fault. I would take the blame.”
When the officer appeared at the window, Kahuna looked at him with his big puppy dog eyes and his infectious smile and pleaded, “We were just kidding.”
The officer directed him to follow him to his car, where we were later told he gave him a thorough scolding. I don’t know how he knew it was us (but it probably didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to eliminate the other five people in the town who owned a CB). I also don’t remember if Kahuna informed the police officer that the real villain was me. What I remember is Kahuna’s reaction when he entered the car after his reprimand. He didn’t toss me out of the car, punch me in the face, or even raise his voice. He simply got back in the car and flatly said, “Let’s not do that again.”
That was it. Nothing else bad happened. So, I learned that evening I was wrong about the Kahuna cruiser being our shield; the real magic came from our captain behind the wheel. Kahuna, not the car, had a way of making everything all right.
Years after we graduated from high school, I moved to the Indianapolis area, a few hours away from Ferdinand, where Kahuna still lived. I became lousy at staying in touch. But, whether we hadn’t seen each other for five months or five years our relationship really never changed. He was still the towering figure with a big heart and warm smile, and I was still the goofball who made him laugh. So, more than twenty-five years later, when I was diagnosed with stage 4 gastric cancer, I wasn’t even surprised when Jill called me and asked if I wanted to go backroading again with Kahuna and her. I immediately said “yes” as if another ride with Kahuna and friends would once again make everything all right.
Even though his old Impala was long gone, I could feel some of the same spirit of the Kahuna cruiser in Mike’s new truck. That night Kahuna, Jill, and I visited friends, traveled the backroads of Southern Indiana again, and made a stop at a mysterious old cemetery (Kline cemetery) tucked away in the middle of the woods off a dusty rock road. As we talked about our families, I watched Mike’s huge heart swell even bigger when he would mention his high school sweetheart and wife, Beth, and their three kids and grandkids. We respectfully talked about politics, even though we shared very differing views. We agreed on the importance of truth and trust—with our leaders and among each other (even though this was before the pandemic). We talked about life. We talked about death.
We talked about spirituality and religion. Mike shared his unwavering faith in God. He described how his faith was a big part of his life. As Jill, Kahuna and I stood in the cool fall breezes next to the small tombstones of people who had gone before us, even though we had differing spiritual beliefs, the three of us couldn’t help but think that those who had passed before us really weren’t gone at all. Their souls, their energy, something still was very much around us.
With my cancer prognosis becoming increasingly worse, I tried to come to terms with my pending fate. I said goodbye to Kahuna and Jill that night thinking it was my final Earthly goodbye to them. Tears swelled in my eyes stepping out of Kahuna’s truck. But when I went to bed that night, it wasn't sadness or fear that filled my mind. It was peace, love, and joy by their presence. Once again, Kahuna just made me feel everything would be all right.
Miraculously, my health improved. The immunotherapy treatment successfully attacked the cancer throughout my body and made me feel a sense of normalcy. On one Friday evening just a couple months ago (a couple years after our last backroading adventure), I decided to savor another day of living and stopped by a local music festival in the Indianapolis area. As I walked towards the music, I spotted a recognizable face—a towering figure with a warm smile. Kahuna, Beth, and others were in town for their youngest son’s soccer tournament. We only were able to spend about fifteen minutes together that evening, so I texted him the next day hoping we could spend some time together searching for the backroads of Indianapolis, but he was already heading home.
Three weeks after seeing Kahuna, Jill informed me that he was in the hospital with COVID. I told Jill that I hated that he had to go through this, but that I was confident he would get through this. After all, he was Kahuna. Everything would be all right.
I exchanged a few texts with Kahuna while he was in the hospital. Since he was never one to hide behind tough-guy platitudes, I wasn’t surprised when he shared how scared he was and how difficult the fight was for him. He described his labored breathing “like having a trash bag over your head all the time.” He ended the conversation simply with “love u.”
And those became the last words I received from the gentle giant who I thought would stand forever. Two weeks later, his vitals worsened, he had a stroke, and he died from COVID complications.
In the week since he has passed, I’ve been thinking a lot about how he died. The struggle. The fear. The isolation from not being able to see friends, his mother, and others in the hospital. I’m still trying to make sense of my emotions of his loss. It is both maddening and sickening to me that he died from this virus seven months after the vaccine was readily accessible to him. Beth has shared how he regretted not getting the vaccine sooner. (He had received his first dose but only after becoming symptomatic.) I am angry at those who have sowed the seeds of distrust in our institutions, in our medical experts, and our local health care facilities. I am troubled by some other friends who I love dearly who still refuse to get vaccinated based on information that is not true. I am grateful and sorry for the nurses and doctors who have traded their own mental, emotional, and physical health to tirelessly treat those who refused to trust them. But, mostly, I am sad. My heart aches for Beth, their kids, and grandkids, Mike’s brothers and sister, his Mom, and those who loved him the most. I am sad that I won’t get to go backroading with Kahuna again. I am sad that the entire world lost a great man.
Mike lived a remarkable life, one filled with kindness, humor, gratitude, and love. He cared endlessly for others. He treated everyone with respect. Everyone who knew him felt like a friend. The outpouring of support since his fight began speaks to the size of the footprints this giant will leave. Kahuna made me a better person. He made everyone who had the privilege of knowing him a better person. We all should model the life he lived. So, Mike’s legacy should never be defined by how he died. We should remember him by how he lived.
Even though his old Impala was long gone, I could feel some of the same spirit of the Kahuna cruiser in Mike’s new truck. That night Kahuna, Jill, and I visited friends, traveled the backroads of Southern Indiana again, and made a stop at a mysterious old cemetery (Kline cemetery) tucked away in the middle of the woods off a dusty rock road. As we talked about our families, I watched Mike’s huge heart swell even bigger when he would mention his high school sweetheart and wife, Beth, and their three kids and grandkids. We respectfully talked about politics, even though we shared very differing views. We agreed on the importance of truth and trust—with our leaders and among each other (even though this was before the pandemic). We talked about life. We talked about death.
We talked about spirituality and religion. Mike shared his unwavering faith in God. He described how his faith was a big part of his life. As Jill, Kahuna and I stood in the cool fall breezes next to the small tombstones of people who had gone before us, even though we had differing spiritual beliefs, the three of us couldn’t help but think that those who had passed before us really weren’t gone at all. Their souls, their energy, something still was very much around us.
With my cancer prognosis becoming increasingly worse, I tried to come to terms with my pending fate. I said goodbye to Kahuna and Jill that night thinking it was my final Earthly goodbye to them. Tears swelled in my eyes stepping out of Kahuna’s truck. But when I went to bed that night, it wasn't sadness or fear that filled my mind. It was peace, love, and joy by their presence. Once again, Kahuna just made me feel everything would be all right.
Miraculously, my health improved. The immunotherapy treatment successfully attacked the cancer throughout my body and made me feel a sense of normalcy. On one Friday evening just a couple months ago (a couple years after our last backroading adventure), I decided to savor another day of living and stopped by a local music festival in the Indianapolis area. As I walked towards the music, I spotted a recognizable face—a towering figure with a warm smile. Kahuna, Beth, and others were in town for their youngest son’s soccer tournament. We only were able to spend about fifteen minutes together that evening, so I texted him the next day hoping we could spend some time together searching for the backroads of Indianapolis, but he was already heading home.
Three weeks after seeing Kahuna, Jill informed me that he was in the hospital with COVID. I told Jill that I hated that he had to go through this, but that I was confident he would get through this. After all, he was Kahuna. Everything would be all right.
I exchanged a few texts with Kahuna while he was in the hospital. Since he was never one to hide behind tough-guy platitudes, I wasn’t surprised when he shared how scared he was and how difficult the fight was for him. He described his labored breathing “like having a trash bag over your head all the time.” He ended the conversation simply with “love u.”
And those became the last words I received from the gentle giant who I thought would stand forever. Two weeks later, his vitals worsened, he had a stroke, and he died from COVID complications.
In the week since he has passed, I’ve been thinking a lot about how he died. The struggle. The fear. The isolation from not being able to see friends, his mother, and others in the hospital. I’m still trying to make sense of my emotions of his loss. It is both maddening and sickening to me that he died from this virus seven months after the vaccine was readily accessible to him. Beth has shared how he regretted not getting the vaccine sooner. (He had received his first dose but only after becoming symptomatic.) I am angry at those who have sowed the seeds of distrust in our institutions, in our medical experts, and our local health care facilities. I am troubled by some other friends who I love dearly who still refuse to get vaccinated based on information that is not true. I am grateful and sorry for the nurses and doctors who have traded their own mental, emotional, and physical health to tirelessly treat those who refused to trust them. But, mostly, I am sad. My heart aches for Beth, their kids, and grandkids, Mike’s brothers and sister, his Mom, and those who loved him the most. I am sad that I won’t get to go backroading with Kahuna again. I am sad that the entire world lost a great man.
Mike lived a remarkable life, one filled with kindness, humor, gratitude, and love. He cared endlessly for others. He treated everyone with respect. Everyone who knew him felt like a friend. The outpouring of support since his fight began speaks to the size of the footprints this giant will leave. Kahuna made me a better person. He made everyone who had the privilege of knowing him a better person. We all should model the life he lived. So, Mike’s legacy should never be defined by how he died. We should remember him by how he lived.
But, I also believe he would want us to also learn from his death. He reminded us that life is delicate. Trust and truth matters. Mike would never preach to anyone about his beliefs being right and someone else’s being wrong. It simply wasn’t his style. He would listen. And, I think that’s all he would ask of us. He would ask us to continue to laugh. To continue to learn. But mostly, be willing to continue to listen to and love each other.
Like Kahuna, I believe there is something after this world. If there is a heaven, there is no doubt that Mike received his VIP ticket. I imagine him passing through the pearly white gates in the big red Impala with his broad smile. I also know that when all our time on Earth is up, nothing would make Mike happier than being the guy to squeeze all of us into that Kahuna cruiser and to show us the backroads of heaven. But until that day comes, he would want us to find space in our own cars—and in our own hearts—to make room for each other.
Like Kahuna, I believe there is something after this world. If there is a heaven, there is no doubt that Mike received his VIP ticket. I imagine him passing through the pearly white gates in the big red Impala with his broad smile. I also know that when all our time on Earth is up, nothing would make Mike happier than being the guy to squeeze all of us into that Kahuna cruiser and to show us the backroads of heaven. But until that day comes, he would want us to find space in our own cars—and in our own hearts—to make room for each other.
Many nights spent in Kahuna’s Impala and always laughter spilling out. He had some of the funniest comebacks of anyone ever. Such a great man, friend and always smiling. Kahuna always took the time to stop, talk and listen, which is a quality that not everyone possesses. His heart was kind, to the core. Michael even apologized to me when others were unkind, which was so admirable. I will always remember him for thanking me for helping others in my career. Mike was a truly unique man, a great friend since we were just toddlers. All of us who were Blessed to have him in our lives know, his smile, his hug and soft voice could make everything better.
ReplyDeleteIt has been an Honor to be your friend Kahuna. I loved cheerleading for you all 8 years and seeing your smile on the night of Senior Sectional during those last few seconds. When the buzzer rang and we ran to be a group, I remember congratulating you. You, being the sweet guy you always were, congratulated me. That was just the kind of big heart you had at all times, thinking of others.
The final buzzer may have taken you from us this time, though I know you are waiting to welcome us all when it is our turn. I appreciated your friendship here more than you will know. Thanks for being you.
Until my buzzer,
Lana- your forever friend