The loss of a good man

I posted the other day that a good friend of mine had died and I would like to thank you all for your kind expressions of sympathy and for sharing your own stories of loss and grief. Because I spoke of him so often on Facebook and he posted here, too, many of you may feel as if you knew him, my computer guru pal, Lowell. So I am posting here something that I wrote about Lowell this weekend.
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Most of us are fortunate enough to find others to love, but few of us ever meet someone who is truly memorable. I was one of the lucky ones, for my friend, Lowell LaMont, blazed his own trail with courage, humor, and determination. We lost Lowell on Friday when his battered body could no longer keep up with his indomitable spirit. I would rather remember how he lived, though, than how he died. Lowell was an original in so many ways. He was one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known, blessed with a photographic memory and a creative brain that could think “outside the box,” He was more than my friend; he was my knight in shining armor, fending off the demons and dragons that haunted my computers over the years. He could always outwit them, finding another detour every time he hit a roadblock, and he never understood why I found his skills so remarkable. He was generous with his genius, too, often helping friends and neighbors with their computer woes. I’ve bragged about his technological expertise so often on-line that whenever I complained on Facebook about computer bad behavior, people would immediately post, “What does Lowell say?”
When he was not vanquishing Demon Spawn or outsmarting Melusine, he was probably listening to his beloved classical music. He loved all music, especially classical and opera, and could identify almost any piece after hearing just the first few notes. He also loved trains and planes; he took flying lessons at one time and would have made a fine pilot had circumstances permitted it. He loved animals, too, and they loved him in return. We called him the Goose Whisperer after he worked his magic on a flock of wild geese. Cats relied upon their feline radar to turn up on Lowell and Valerie’s porch, knowing they’d find a good home—and they always did. My dogs all adored him, even my neurotic little Chelsea, who was emotionally damaged from puppyhood and only felt safe with four people: me, my dad, my nephew, and Lowell. It took her several years to accept my nephew, but although she only saw Lowell once a year, she fell under his spell from their first meeting, and when he’d get up early to work on one of my balky computers, she would sneak in to keep him company and when he’d play music for her, she’d dance; he’d laugh and say that she was probably a Cajun dog in a past life, for that was her favorite music.
Lowell was a scientist who wed a woman whose passion was for history and languages, but their disparate interests never mattered. They raised two fine sons, Andy and Kyle, and I loved to listen as Lowell talked to me about his family—about Valerie and his boys and his brother Jim down in Florida—for his face would light up when he did. He touched so many lives in so many ways; whenever we went out to dinner, he always knew the names and histories of our servers by the time the meal was done, for he was genuinely interested in other people. He liked to tell me stories of his time in the Navy and his time in Buffalo, where he met Valerie, who was the love of his life. He was proud of his brother, Jim, for handling high-stress work as a dispatcher, marveling that Jim was always so focused, so calm in a crisis. He was, too, of course. Whenever Lyndon Johnson wanted to praise someone, he used to say that “He was a man to go to the well with.” Lowell was a man to go to the well with
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