ALWAYS MISSING MY DAD…and the never-ending saga of how this shit creeps up on you in weird ways.

I’ve made it a bit of point not to wallow too much in missing Dad. To not let it get to be something detrimental, messing with my ability to do what I do. Which I think is a healthy thing? And fuck, like I know? I’m winging it on the “people you love up and dying” bullshit, and doing my best to figure it out as I go. I don’t have the answers.

But I have to say, weeks or even months will go by, and I won’t think about him. And that pisses me off as much as when I get all poopy about him dying in the first place. So how do you miss the folks who left us the right way? I guess that’s just something you figure out as the years go by.

I’ve said it before, and will keep on saying it: This shit just keeps getting weirder, and more confusing, and fleeting, and just surprising how it can work me over like it does.

I just get humming along at a feverish pace…worrying about projects, sorting Field Notes, scheming new merch, flinging W-9s all over hell, tinkering on the recycling, filing files, hammering through airports, filling up seats ALL THE WAY on lopsided flights, listening to records, designing records, building posts, begging Leigh to rub my shoulders and the battling the roaring tidal wave of “everythingelseness” that’s always threatening me and then it hits me: Dad, what the fuck? Where’d you go?

Come back, Dad.

Here's the post we put up for the little man on August 6, 2010, the day we had to give him back to the universe:

A SAD ANNOUNCEMENT: Leigh and I gave Gary back to the universe Wednesday morning here in Traverse City.

That’s the best way to put it, really. A long time coming since his spinal chord rupture last September, it just felt right to do it back home with Mom and Dad.

We gave it a good fight these last eleven months. Things just weren’t the same anymore. We couldn’t keep up with the puddles and health problems. His spine injury was just too much of a game changer.

He’s buried in the doggie cemetery on my parent’s property in a box Dad made for him. I carved his name into the little lid. Wrapped him up in his favorite blanket with a tennis ball and the only stuffed animal he didn’t completely rip to shit.

He had a good run. Gary was just 5-1/2 years old.

Think about the little man and smile. Then think about that bark of his. That shrieking yelp could cut me in half.

Thank you to everyone who left a nice note on Facebook or wrote in. I sent a little notice to all his buddies yesterday and thank all of you for writing back.

Hard to believe it’s been almost twenty years since Kristine passed. I think about her all the time. I think about how much potential she had as the feisty, happy, clever young woman she was, as well as the artist, designer, cyclist, hobo, daughter, sister and partner she was to the world. She stood right up to me from the first time I met her. I was three times her size. And she could hold her own, even if I limited her endless questions to “fourteen a day” during her internship at Snowboarder Magazine with me in SoCal.

Her bike accident was horrible. And jarring. That terrifying phone call was like an explosion. I remember racing up to OHSU, frantically parking and running into the hospital maze to find her. I’m haunted by the sight of my tiny little friend in that big, scary bed with all those tubes and machines around her. And how I just wanted to pick her little body up and drive her all the way back to mom and dad in Windom, Minnesota.

I still feel guilty for bringing her—somehow, someway—out to Portland. Maybe if she didn’t follow her sisters out here, she would have had the full life the rest of us were so lucky to have? This is what cycles through my head when I think of Kris.

My heart will forever go out to her mom and dad, Mary and Jim Okins, and her siblings Melissa, Matt and Ange and their loss.

I’ll go out of my way to drive past her spot downtown where the accident was, and apologize to her for what happened to her that sad day here in Portland. So sorry, Kris. I miss you and am happy as hell to have met you in Minneapolis like I did.

I still think about that one time playing Westerberg songs for you in the attic on Couch street. And how you said, “Play that one again, please…” as you were dozing off on the couch, some twenty feet away. No one likes my guitar playing. Love ya, kid.

I met Matt up in Anchorage my second summer with Princess Tours. He was a scrappy chef from Philadelphia up for the summer to work his skills to the test. Sweet-natured and cool, we hit it off quickly and became buds. We both skateboarded and traded notes on Philly bands we liked.

In the fall of 1997 I visited him in Philadelphia suburbs. Got to meet his family and his buddies, and see his world in and around the city. He thought I was crazy sleeping in my van like I did. One night we stayed at his friend’s place in the city, and I crashed in my van. It was either that or a little couch on a veranda that was super bright. I chose Al and slithered in the back. About thirty minutes later and I’m dozing off, and feel the van rocking.

Turns out some sketchy neighborhood guys saw me climb in, and were messing with me. I could hear them talking and laughing, just outside the mini van. I kept quiet, with my knife close by. Urban adventure! Adelizzi ate it up the next morning.

He was a great guy, and I learned he had a wife and daughter, some fifteen years since last seeing him those couple days in Pennsylvania on my little East Coast mini tour.

I won’t forget you, man!

There’s wasn’t a lot of skateboarding opportunity in Northern Michigan. You had to travel south to get to the action. And by “action” I mean, demos with real life pros! In 1989 I hopped a Great North Sports bus down to Wind, Waves and Wheels in Rockford. There was a big ramp jam, a street course and general revelry. Sure, there were a bunch of pros in blow our minds, but one dreadlocked guy stood out. Chris Miller and Ben Shroeder were names we knew from the magazines…but Dave Tuck? He made it into my little Drap Zine I made a year later.

Some years later, the Solid Snowboards team came to stay with us in Bend. Matt Hale, Jeff Wastell, Kurt Wastell and Dave Tuck! Tuck was their team manager!

A true original, always with a big smile. My heart goes out to his Michigan and Colorado buddies, and I’m thankful to have known him.

I remember going to speak in Denver. And was so excited Gary Aleshire, Jeff Wastell and Hallie were coming. And how at the time, she was going through such a horrific thing, and never let on about it for a second. I remember being blown away by that, so happy to have old friends at my Denver show. Was proud to share my mess with them. I loaded her up with wiener dog merch that night!

Leigh and I were on the DDC book tour in Fort Colins, and whipped down to Denver for Hallie’s memorial. It was a beautiful gathering, with so many people, but so sad. Saw so many old friends from Traverse City, and just didn’t know how to express how bad I felt about all of it. Got to meet her son Jack and daughter Chloe that day, all grown up. I remember holding Jack one summer long ago when he was two or something!

Hallie was always so kind to me, and supportive of what I had going on in Oregon. She was always so positive and beaming when we’d cross paths in Denver, or back home during Traverse City summer. I’ll remember that forever.

My heart goes out to Jeff, Jack and Chloe, as well her family back in Traverse City.

Please check out Hallie’s Hearts Endowment and donate.

MISSING YOU, BUDDY: A little over a year ago Northern Michigan lost the great Johnny White. Been thinking about him a whole bunch the last couple weeks, and hell, all year.

I’ll always hold close the memories of moving west with Johnny in 1993. I was 19, just starting my life. 2,500 miles from home. Derek, Bry, Eric, Chad and Johnny. Out to Oregon, to Mt. Bachelor. I loved those days. Young, kinetic, loose, happy, wild, excited and fun. So thankful I got to share it with my brothers. Johnny White was always awesome. A great friend, chairlift buddy and dependable roommate.

I shared a house with Johnny for a couple months the winter of 1995-1996. We’d hit the sack with a fire raging, sweating in the little bedroom we shared. We’d wake up FREEZING, no insulation in that shit shack to protect us. We used to joke about having to thaw and crack the ice that formed overnight over our eyes, before opening them. We’d laugh so hard, cold as hell under mountains of blankets. Even that hypothermic shit was fun with this guy.

Thanks, Johnny.

Johnny White Memories:
01. Camping outside of Crater Lake, and you had me so scared that a sasquatch or some shit was going to come into camp. I couldn't sleep that night. Still can't when camping.
02. Going to see the Lemonheads/Hole and getting all tanked up and laughing out loud at Courtney Love, arm in arm.
03. Whipping your ass in chess.
04. When Dad "de-vegetarian'd" you with a couple of bratwursts. I remember walking up and you were biting into a big bratwurst and I said, “John, wait, you don't eat meat!” And you said, “I do now! These are things are delicious!” And Dad behind you, beaming and nodding his head. That ruled.
05. You presenting Olive to me for the first time, and how proud you were. She was beautiful!
06. Riding Bachelor with Derek, Chad, Bryan and Campbell. And even Rod a bunch of times! You were always up for a day at the mountain.
07. Your red Volkswagen station wagon with the weird green, fuzzy dingleball thingies you tacked up. That rig was awesome.
08. The time when you and Sean drove back home through the Black Hills and were possessed by ancient Native American spirits. How serious you took that experience.
09. Your kindhearted way of going about the world.
10. Seeing how you filthy animals were living in Dillon that one spring break. No shame whatsoever.
11. That goofy laugh. Forever in my head, man.
12. Not one to fuck with during harvest! 🍒

I met Pauline through Field Notes event at our headquarters in Chicago. She’d come to our seasonal edition parties and talks around town. We’d catch up and talk about the latest products, and I’d make sure I’d always have a little something extra for her.

Couple times I sent her some “off the record” Field Notes shipments. She was a kind, gentle and warm, and I enjoyed our talks.

Was on my way home from shows in Kentucky & Tennessee, and got to say goodbye to my old buddy J2, just hours before he passed. I met Tooz when I started at Snowboarder Magazine. Would see him at trade shows and the like. We never shredded together. I was out of the “up on the hill” game by the time I met him.

When we got Snowboard Mag going in 2004, Tooz was there the night we kicked it off. You can see the pictures of J2, Dave England and Mark Sullivan working up the first ideas of the mag in my shitty basement apartment off Hawthorne & 24th. Page 50 in my book. I left him my book yesterday when I saw him.

I’d be driving through Salt Lake and would crash at Mikey’s. Tooz was a bit of a caretaker there. We’d go to Moca Salsa for lunch and catch up. It was one thing to be around J2 at a movie premier, trade show or party. But to just be having lunch or shooting the shit in Mikey’s basement, his guard would come down a little bit. Kind, creative, honest, feisty, funny and warm.

The last bunch of years, each time I’d rip through Salt Lake City—either on a road trip or for a speaking gig—I’d try to drag him out to hang. I left lots of voice calls, and hell, don’t even know if it was his phone? Just wanted to show him all the stuff I was up to.

Thankful I got to see you, buddy. Sorry it had to be that way, and not over tacos at Moca Salsa, like we did so many times.

“Alright, see ya, doug.” –J2
“Doug? Who’s Doug?” –Aaron
“When a guy is both a dude and a dawg…that’s a doug.” –J2

(Thank you to his mom, sister, aunt and wife for allowing me into the room yesterday, during such a scary time. Thank you to Mikey and Whitey for getting me access to Tooz a couple years back. We had a couple awesome calls to get reacquainted. That was the first time he ever called me “Aaron” and not some bullshit “Thunder Thighs” or whatever. Thank you to Bennee and Dead Lung for the heartfelt update just feet from Tooz’ hospital room. Thank you to Mark and Jeff for pep talks. My heart goes out to his family, and all his Salt Lake City homies.)

Trav White was a high school friend of mine. Met him while at St. Francis High School, and hopped ship over to Traverse City Senior High for our junior and senior years.

He was a fisherman, skateboarder, snowboarder, carpenter and with dreams of becoming a chiropractor.

He was a rascal, too. Funny, mischievous and always able to see a couple steps ahead of everyone else.

Wishing you an endless expanse of blue sky days, happy dogs, fishing holes, Dead shows, knee-deep powder runs and thunderclap nine-ball opening breaks forever and ever and ever and ever...

Rest easy, Trav.

Fun Travis White memories:
01. When you had that rented basement at the house on eighth street. That thing was a dungeon!
02. You teasing me with a very real knife while I was tipsy, stoned and way way way out of it. I tried to grab the very real knife from you and I cut myself, you dick.
03. Watching you kick a couple local yokel’s asses in eight ball at Union Street. You fuckin’ cleaned up.
04. Catching up after not talking for a long time, and you updating me on your illness. And how stoic you were. So scary.
05. Incredible memories of snowboarding with you at Mt. Holiday.
06. That weird fart sound you’d make as someone was walking up the aisle in Mr. Breaugh’s mythology class, perfectly-timed to each foot step or the unfortunate instance someone had to bend down.

John was my buddy Tom Prote’s dad. Met him in 1985 when Tom moved to Central Lake. John had the most incredible A-frame home right on Torch Lake, and we’d spend summer days roaming around the woods, getting in trouble and the like under John’s loose supervision. I loved checking out his cool architecture drawing tools in his studio and loved his draftsman handwriting. Last time I saw him in 1992, he pulled me close and said, “Graphic Design? There’s no money in graphic design, Aaron!” as I was so proud to tell him I was almost done with my two year design stint at NMC. All these years later? Wish I could tell him how I made it in this shit! Thank you for inspiring me as a kid, John!

JOHN’S OFFICIAL OBITUARY: On Friday, April 3, 2020, John J Prote of Petoskey passed away at home at the age of 86. He leaves behind his loving wife of 27 years Linda Prote. John was born on May 23, 1933 in Detroit to Russian immigrants John and Mary

Protasevich. He attended Cass Tech and graduated from Michigan State University with a degree in Landscape Architecture. He joined the Air Force and served as Second Lieutenant while stationed in Okinawa, Japan. John was preceded in death by his older sisters, Olga (Jajich) and Annie (Francuch). He is survived by his first wife, Janet Prote and their two children Marilyn (Scott) Schumaker and Tom Prote, grandchildren Jack, Max, Sam and Sarah Schumaker, stepchildren Elizabeth (Brentton) Smith and Robbie Legrand and grandchildren, Sylvia Shaver and Eva Smith. John loved the outdoors and incorporated that into his work life. He formed Prote Krause Landscape Architects in Bloomfield Hills with his partner Dave Krause, later was the Assistant Planning and Zoning Officer for Emmett County and lastly, served as Golf Ranger at Bay Harbor in Petoskey. In light of the current Covid19 situation John will be cremated and a memorial celebrating his life will be held by his family later in the summer at his favorite place, Torch Lake.

Chris could get a little salty. But that’s what I liked about him. He wasn’t afraid to tell it like is. We shared Midwestern roots and mutual colleagues from the shred game on the hill back in the day, and from the heavy metal realms around Portland.

Chris was lost to a motorcycle accident near Astoria in 2020. He was just 49. Way too fuckin’ young.

Gonna cue up some Diesto and let those heavy jams fill up the shop!

I was introduced to O in 2014 from his buddy and bandmate @JoshWHiggins. Josh and I were buds on the design lecture circuit, and he loaded me up with many salacious O stories.

I knew the tale of O alllll the way back. Was a fan of Olivelawn, right into Fluf. Even before that, I knew his name from the skate mags. So many killer “O Photo” shots in the mags that we all grew up on.

I started sending him DDC hats in 2014. Next thing I know, he’s up in Portland and brings J Mascis to one of my pop-ups. They were buddies all the way back to when Dinosaur Jr. hit it big in ’87. O told me many tales revolving around his friendship with J. As a rabid Dino fan, it was such a treat. I’ll never forget hooking up with O in Detroit at Third Man Records and walking out to meet J in his rental car. Surreal! Forever thankful for the connection made to a band that’s topped my list for so many years.

When O would come to Portland, we’d hit guitar stores. The man was an “ENCYCLOPEDIA OF RAD” when it came to guitars, amps and pedals. I was blown away by the names he’d drop—so flippantly—regarding punk rock heroes. I’d have to slow him down, “O! Whoa, man. I don’t know John Doe. I don’t know Exene. Say what you just said again, but slower…” I couldn’t keep up!

A couple years back we made the Harshmellow 7-inch. An honor to work for O and Sarah. The record turned out incredible! The coolest part about making the record was to see all his connections come to life: The fuckin’ Melvins, Stoughton Printing, Third Man Records doing the pressing and Jim Gray-printed stickers…all the coolest shit. O was buddies with them all.

I’ll miss you, O. Thank you for letting me in, all the stories you shared and all the connections you made for me. Forever appreciated.

No Selfie Zone. Sweet Virginia. Smuggling. Barging. For O.

Hands down, one of the kindest, big-hearted humans I have ever met. Smarter than a whip, with contagious vision for miles. Of how to make things better for fellow South Dakotans, fellow “Ota” folks and really, everyone who crossed your path. You’d never admit to any of that with your “Aw, shucks” way, but we all revered the beauty, intelligence and leadership that exuded from you.

I didn’t want to write these words, cuz I don’t like having to accept you are gone. I was so inspired by your leadership, writing, communication and organizing abilities, your selfless sense of service and your love for your beautiful Amy, and talented youngsters Emerson and Finn. They are you.

And can I get a round of applause for Hugh’s handwriting? Go look at his notes in his Instagram account. Some beautiful, casual stuff…incredible ideas jam-packed with possibility and potential. The likes of Sister Mary Corita Kent!

Please know I think about you all the time, hold our long phone chats, road trips, and the speaking engagements you’d drag my ass into—close to my heart forever. Thank you for getting me involved, Hugh.

You always had my vote. Still do!

I met Jeff way back at St. Francis High School through Travis White. We ran in different packs but got to know him during my first couple years at NMC. My asshole buddy Brian Johnsen was rooming with Jeff’s buddy Jamie in the dorms, and much hilarity ensued. I mean, we’re talking some downright degenerate depravity. But Jeff made it fun, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

I lost touch with him after college but would hear these awesome accounts of heroic guiding adventures way out west. When he passed, I went and took a little stroll through all the comments and loved reading about how well he was respected in the outdoor community by his peers and clients.

Biiiiiiiiiiisonnnnnnnnn!!!!

(If you know, you know.)

It’s hard to write this one. I’m haunted by one question. Could we have done more for our friend?

The last time I saw Robbie was a couple years back, while whipping through Bend after a night camping in La Pine. Showed me his welding shop, all the big tools and caught up on what we were up to. I gave him a DDC book and the latest pile of merch goodies out of the back of Gas Pig.

He was in good spirits, hugging me and laughing. That’s the Robbie I met back in 1993 and saw that afternoon in 2020. And will continue to remember him as.

Robbie was one funny motherfucker, all the way back. A Detroit kid who made his way to Bend, Oregon. Punk rock, skateboard and snowboarding. He was loyal as hell and wasn’t afraid to scrap if it came to it. I never saw that side of him around Bend, but reveled in the stories. He was willing to lend a hand, and always down for conversation, frolic and fuckery.

I’d like to thank Jay Floyd and Miki Keller for bringing me up to speed. And to all his friends in Bend who were looking out for him.

“I’ve had a bountiful sufficiency; anything more would be a superfluous abundancy.” –Robbie Benson

I met Sweetapple just once in Austin before a Witch show. After a bunch of years trading notes on the social meeds. But I’ve been a fan for YEARS. Through Witch, Sweet Apple and J Mascis stuff.

Thanks for the big shipment of records, Dave. That blew me away. And for the heavy tunes over the years. And for digging the DDC. And connections to cool folks. All appreciated.

I have a Vermont Rovers sticker on my Craftsman tool tower in your honor.

Wherever you are, sure do hope you are behind the wheel of some beefy rover, deep in the mud bogs, some Rory Gallagher blasting, that big hound as co-pilot and ripping the shit out of the place!

I hope you are muddin’ deep in those Vermont woods forever!

Markie was a cool, kind, funny kid. We met him and his best buddy Matty way back when in Bend. We were all just kids, but these little rats were young and living big all over Oregon.

Markie brought many bands to Bend. All that effort, always working for the community. I remember that a little something that always struck me about Markie. Very cool.

One of my greatest Markie stories is long after I left Bend. I had just moved into a hand-me-down apartment from buddy Jay Floyd. On Couch Street, right behind Olé Olé Mexican restaurant on Burnside here in Portland. This would’ve been 2002. I had just moved up from California.

Markie showed up in a High Cascade camp van. And it was loaded with snacks. This was at the end of the summer and camp had just wrapped. In the back of the van, it was a foot deep with cans of soda pop, candy bars, chips and shit.

I remember Markie saying, “You want anything, Draplin?” I think I grabbed a couple boxes of granola bars.