Hold My Drink and WATCH THIS

I met Mike Rippe on February 15, 1986, the day after Valentine’s Day.

I’m uncharacteristically sure of the date because I played guitar in a band at that time and we supplied the music at a Valentine’s dance in east Tennessee the night before. A huge snow squall painted the area with almost a foot of snow in about four hours, so luckily the hotel that hosted the dance also had rooms the band could crash in after the show. It was pretty warm the next morning and the roads were cleared quickly, so I wasted no time in starting the 40 mile trip back to my apartment in Southwest Virginia.

Now the roads were good, but the plows had created a God-awful mess of peoples’ driveway entrances and such. Fortunately my Abingdon apartment complex manager arranged for a plow to cruise the property, but most renters had to deal with truck-size mountains of plowed snow that as good as marooned cars and, in some cases, came right up to the front doors; even some windows were completely blocked. As I turned into the complex I recall thinking how the snow was going to be tough for some of these folks to manage and immediately noticed a man with a snow shovel, whom I had never met, busily clearing snow from my front door – having just finished making a wide clear spot where I could park my car. He looked up at me and waved as I pulled up, never missing a beat with the snow shovel. I remember getting out of the car and grinning real big in his direction while letting him know how much I appreciated his help with the snow. Little did I know that that was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

We introduced ourselves. Mike lived just upstairs in the same building as I, and he had just decided that morning to help a few people out by shoveling a little snow. A little snow, as I found out, amounted to a pile roughly five feet deep times eight or nine apartments. That, in a nutshell, describes the essence of Mike Rippe. I pulled in thinking about how the snow was going to be a real burden to people; Mike did something about it. Looking back, I see that his whole life tells the story of what is possible when opportunity meets ability. Mike not only had the drive, but made the conscious decision to make a difference, not just that day but every day, and in all of his affairs.

Some people walk around as if a dark cloud follows them everywhere they go. These folks can suck the air out of a room just by walking into it. Mike Rippe was exactly the opposite. When I remember Mike, I often think about something my preacher calls “Jabez Moments,” moments in time where opportunity presents itself for us to make a genuine, God-filled difference in someone’s life. Mike was seizing Jabez Moments long before either of us knew what a Jabez Moment was. But that was Mike… always looking for ways he could add to – never detract from – the fullness of life. And that’s just one of many reasons he was extraordinarily special.

Mike was a phenomenon; he was a natural leader, and leaders always emerge when they're needed. The last job he had before squamous cell carcinoma greedily and savagely took him was Director of Transportation Development for District One of the Florida Department of Transportation, a 12-county area including Lee County. He got that job because he was with the DOT in Lee County when Hurricane Charlie chewed up great swaths of southwest Florida real estate and infrastructure in August of 2004, and District Secretary Stan Cann was trying to figure out who in the hell was going to grab that mess by the horns and turn the Fort Myers area back into a decent place for people to live and work again. About that time, Stan looked up... and there was Mike. Once more, just like the guy who shoveled strangers out of the snow because he felt like making a difference 22 years ago, Mike Rippe's raw ability, skills, and talent, met head-on -- and smashingly succeeded in handling -- the humongous challenge of taking charge in the wake of Charlie's catastrophic destruction. Rippi, as his oldest friends knew him, only did what came naturally; he stood up and made a difference when his special gifts were needed.

I must quickly add that Rippi was not all work. Au contraire. I think back to that first conversation, which swiftly moved inside as soon as the words "I believe I have some gin" left my mouth. We listened to Led Zeppelin and Hank Williams records (yes, records), played cribbage, talked, and drank Tanqueray and tonic until quite late. We talked about our respective friends and family and it did not take long for me to realize that in Mike's world guys have nicknames like Spot or Flash or Biggun or Nut-Check, and would always offer to sign your nut-check papers if you were 'stepping in it,' meaning that if you kept on acting that way it's possible you should be put up somewhere and looked after until the nice men in the white coats say it's OK for you to go home. He was always quick with a quip like "I'm broke as a convict" or "you do know that we shoot guns over here, right?" And I'll never forget the time he said "hold my drink and watch this..." after one or three too many shots of George A. Dickel Tullahoma, Tennessee 90 proof sour mash. I'll keep the rest of that one to myself, thank you. Suffice to say, Mike kept that twinkle in his eye until the last.

I miss my good friend very, very much. I am a better person for having known him and I will always honor and cherish the hugely wonderful difference he made in my life during our far too brief time together in the world.