Awesome story from Gail Patton

Hello.

My name is Gail Patton. I am writing to express my deepest condolences for the loss of a very special man in your life, Eddy Eschner. And to say thank you to his family and friends for sharing.

I met Eddy in the autumn of 1980 when I was still Gail Lynn Marks of San Diego and he was going to SDSU. We became close, and spent several months that semester visiting and exchanging poetry, listening to music, laughing, hanging around, and enjoying each other’s friendship. I met Eddy’s good friend Joe back then and, if I am not mistaken, I think it might have been around that time that Joe and some other friends originated the Ensenada-Tecate Bike Ride?? Do I have it right? My memory is not what it used to be.

What I do remember is Eddy was a gem. And I feel very privileged to have known him. In reflecting on the Eddy I knew, certain characteristics and memories come to mind.

He was the first man I ever knew who preferred hot tea over coffee, and I thought that was really cool.

He first noticed me at a party when I was thrown into his apartment swimming pool fully clothed.

He was fond of irises, so one time I used black India ink and an old-fashioned fountain pen to draw him his own bouquet on a big sheet of paper.

He made beautiful hand-crafted jewelry. I still have the silver pendant he gave me, which he named Yin and Yang.

And he wrote poetry almost every day with a dull pencil on lined notebook paper, folded it neatly and mailed it to me less than 10 miles away in small plain envelopes.

(I recognize the one on this website dated 12/12/80 as one that he shared with me then.)

It was from my friendship with Eddy that I began to enjoy Stephen Stills (solo) and Jim Morrison and The Doors. That year before he left for winter break, Eddy gave me Morrison’s biography ­No One Here Gets Out Alive for Christmas. He had written a poem on the inside front and back cover. That book has seen better days, but it’s still in my possession.

Eddy was very focused on his studies when we met, and had started talking even then about moving on to earn his master’s at UNLV. I myself was not a student, and perhaps he sensed my lack of direction. My focus back then seemed to be on fun and having a lot of it. Although we never again spent as much time together as we did those first several months, we remained friends for a long while thereafter -- Eddy was always very good about touching down every so often just to say hey.

In 1986 I had my daughter Rose, and she and I moved to Ohio when she was about a year old. Her dad joined us a few months later. When I first learned I was pregnant, the obstetrician estimated a due date of October 26. I said to the doctor, “Well that’s a relief.” “What’s a relief?” he asked. “My baby is sure to be a terrific person, because one terrific guy I know has the same birthday.”

Eddy wrote to me shortly after we moved, “Living life through the eyes of a child must be one of God’s greatest gifts!!!” He sent that message in a card along with a Polaroid snapshot of his smiling face, at the bottom of which he’d scrawled “Self Portrait…” clearly taken while holding the camera at arms’ length.

Another time (when I was still living in Solana Beach) he sent me a postcard from Hawaii (My recollection is he was there with his sister visiting someone else from his family? I don’t know for sure.) What I do know is he was enthralled with all the natural beauty and wrote about swimming in the cool, clear blue water…

The last time I heard from Eddy was I think right around 1990 -- around the time I just before I was pregnant with my second daughter, Audrey. He sent me a copied cassette tape of Roxy Music’s Avalon album with a note.

Over the years I wondered about Eddy from time to time. I wondered What was he doing? Was he happy living in the desert with the rocks and howling coyotes? I wondered Did he have someone special in his life? I always hoped he did. And I always knew that wherever he was living and whatever he was doing, he would be enjoying himself immensely.

Some years, when October 26 rolled around, I would remember my friend and think “Happy Birthday Eddy, wherever you are.”

Time went on and I thought of my friend less and less often. I was working. Raising two girls. Finding my focus. Going to college. Taking care of business.

In 2004 our family moved to Arizona mainly so Rose, then 18, could attend college at

U of A in Tucson, but also because we wanted live again in the southwest. For two San Diegans, born and bred, the whole snow shoveling thing had long ago lost its appeal.

Life continued with its ups and downs and I couldn’t even tell you the last time I thought about Eddy. Until he suddenly popped into my thoughts out of nowhere in the middle of this past September.

Here’s why. It seemed like every time I switched on the radio it was The Doors. Or Roxy Music. Or Stephen Stills. Day after day. After day. It went on for a couple of weeks. Then it stopped. Just like that. From that time on Eddy remained firmly in my mind, and I found myself wondering why.

Weeks passed.

In November I spent a weekend alone house/pet sitting for a friend in Yuma.

I woke up that Saturday morning, walked into her study where my cell phone had been recharging all night, and was astonished to see the closet doors flung wide open, boxes pulled forward on the shelves, and a silk California Poppy in an acrylic vase resting on the cherry wood desk. A desk which had been bare the night before.

I said to no one there, “Huh! What’s this?” examining the boxes and picking up the vase. I placed it on a shelf, slowly closed the closet doors, and left the room feeling puzzled. This was a safe and secure neighborhood. Robbery was doubtful, and besides, the dog would have gone nuts. I couldn’t explain it, and soon forgot all about it.

That same night I was still on my own, house-sitting. I was lying on the couch in the living room, chatting with my niece on the phone, gazing absently in the direction of the kitchen, and nodding my head to whatever she was saying.

Suddenly the kitchen lights blazed on.

This time the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.

I wondered if this 5-year old condo could be haunted.

A few nights later on my way home from work, Stephen Stills came on the radio again singing Southern Cross. I thought, “That’s it! Enough is enough! I am going straight home and I am going to Google Eddy Eschner. Maybe I’ll be able to find some way to get in touch with him and see what the heck he’s been doing all these years.”

And I did.

And I cried.

And when I was done reading the news, I explored the website and all of my questions from all the years were answered --

I saw a beautiful and happy smiling wife.

I saw beautiful and happy smiling daughters.

And I saw a beautiful and happy smiling Eddy.

I saw the life I always knew he’d been living.

And I was so happy for him and for all of you.

And I am so deeply sorry for your loss.

Yes. All my questions were answered. Including one that had been resting below the surface of my subconscious, hidden until that very moment –

It was Eddy touching down for one last time while I was house-sitting on November 17^th.

Thank you all for sharing.

And thank you for making it possible for me to share my story with you.

Gail

January 9, 2008

Yuma, Arizona

From Wendy's Parents, Ron and Jean

Living near Yosemite National Park for the past twenty-seven years, Ron and I have become familiar with the history of John Muir who was instrumental in preserving this natural wonder. We have had the enjoyable experience of listening to a local, Lee Stetson, protray John Muir in dress and Scottis accent as he performs a monologue covering Muir's life, travels and his passion regarding the need to nurture and preserve nature. In one of John Muir's books he states, "I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out 'til dundown, for going out, I found, was really going in."

I can envision this statement also coming from Eddy, our son-in-law. Though their environs were vastly different, Muir of the mountains and Eddy of the desert, how alike they were in their desire to preserve the gifts of nature—of God, if you will.
To paraphrase Saint John Chrysostom:
He who we love and lose,
Is no longer where he was before.
He is now where we are.

Ron and Jean Kiser