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How the Jetsons Showed Me My Brother Was in Heaven
Hi, Frank. My name is Erin and Jeff was a friend of mine from The Company at Mesa. We were even roommates for a while at the Athabaska house. Smartass and used-car salesman though he could often be, I've rarely met someone so quietly generous as Jeff. He could sense flagging self-esteem and would counter it with just the right compliment, or reverse a rotten day with some random present from one of the thousand pockets of his cargo pants. And in a couple of rare moments he was generous enough to share a slice of that pain he was carrying around with me. I always wished there was something I could do to help, but he just seemed more comfortable being the support than accepting it...I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Anyhow, my mystical Jeff experience is that there are several songs that unmistakeably mean Jeff to me--"Murder, She Wrote" from the Save the Last Dance soundtrack, "Breakfast at Tiffany's", a few others, and whenever one comes on my iPod, they usually all come on in a group. It used to make me sad, but now I just think of it as him stopping in to say, "Hey, what's up?" and reminding me that I still haven't read the Robert Aspirin books he lent me, so I need to get on that. Thanks for sharing this story, I really miss that bright light being in the world.— May 28, 2010 5:39 p.m.