You Just Can’t Have A Santa Clarita Valley Without Rick Patterson

DEAR RICK — Buddy! Where the heck ARE you? As if I don’t already know. We are long overdue for one of our clandestine lunches. I seek legal advice and besides. I miss our Mafia Don meals, amigo. Remember? We’d meet in the oddest of places, sometimes a to-go snack, enjoyed on a park bench on a beautiful spring afternoon or at the mall food court, invisible among the hundreds. My favorite? It was when we’d show up at a closed restaurant, just you and me, as staff quietly bustled about. All that was missing was a small squadron of thick-necked personal bodyguards with roscoes. 

Note to self: Get Thick-Necked Personal Bodyguards. 

It’s such a power statement. 

As mentioned, amigo, I’ve a serious legal problem. As Mr. SCV, I don’t think this valley can continue without you in it. You made your transition a short while ago and I can’t offer the old cliché of, “… to a better place.” It’s that, “… on Earth as it is in Heaven” issue. You see, the half-century plus I’ve known you, dear friend, you’ve help make Santa Clarita more than a bit of heaven. 

Cripes and heavens to Betsy, Rick. It just hit me. We used to play basketball together a million-six years ago in the local Gas Station/Mineral Water Leagues. I believe the proper term was, “Gas Station/Beer Leagues,” but, you being a swell member of the Latter Day Saints, well. In your honor and in respect, I’m always happy to follow your example and search for that deeply buried better side of me. 

Which is part of the reason I’m seeking legal guidance. You spent a lifetime helping others, so much of it in this yuppie-rich and overly cemented Santa Clarita. Most have no idea of all the countless hours you donated freely, everything from rolling up your sleeves in active charity work or being kind enough to not sing in the men’s choir. Thank you for that. (:- ). The darn thing is, much of your kindness (like your Arizona cowboy background) flew under the radar, which, ain’t it annoying, is the way good deeds must be delivered. 

The glory, the simple appreciation? It has to be passed along Upstairs. The reward? A simple and satisfied, tickled pink smile that God’s in Heaven, and Smack Dab Right Here and all IS right with the world. 

MY PAL RICK — with the so-so jump shot… (:- )

I noticed something about you these last few years. It was how hard you worked on yourself — to consciously be that better man. Like playing the piano or swinging a golf club, it takes conscious practice. I’m lucky enough to have more than a few souls in my life where my sincere request is to be them (you) when I grow up. 

Well. Mostly. 

Remember that time, years ago? When I sought your legal counsel? I was renting a storage unit from a Shih-tzu-for-brains alpha community leader (name available upon request for Signal subscribers) who leased out the adjacent unit to the Food Pantry. I noticed, one day, when their big aircraft hangar door was open, they had these huge barrels of dried food and the lids were off. I mean, they might as well hung a sign outside boasting: “RATS EAT FREE!”  

I kept much of my beloved memorabilia in that unit — old magazine stories I had penned, thousands of my columns going back to the 1960s. I had a cowhide chair once owned by Tom Mix, an elk’s head, journalism awards up the wazoo (118 more than Tim Whyte), saddle and tack. 

One January morn, I hoisted open the door to a horror movie. Dozens of rats, the size of bobcats, were scurrying all over my prized possessions. They had gnawed on everything, from Mr. Mix’s stately chair to hundreds of cardboard banker’s boxes. A noxious cloud of excrement hit me like a fist. Rodent presents were everywhere. With the revealing light of day, they scampered back to the Food Pantry’s unit next door over. The damage? Total. The vermin even chomped on one of many irreplaceable possessions: my last copy of “Mad Dogs & Englishmen.” The first column from my Signal Sports Editor days that earned me a big-time journalism award was now laced with mouse latrine by-products. 

Roiling, I asked you about helping me choose between lawsuits or hitmen. You’re up in Heaven now, so I’ll whisper this question. Rick. Do you remember what you said? 

You said, “Well, John. No offense. But, from a legal and attractive nuisance standpoint, did you ever consider that maybe the rats were attracted by your columns?” 

Do you remember how hard we laughed? Falling over, hitting each other laughing. I mean, I’m still giggling. There were the answers, not found in any law book. Forgive. Let go. Don’t take things so seriously. Be the man you were meant to be. 

I sometimes still want to punch the then-owners in the nose. But then, I think of that completely hilarious take of yours. My face breaks into a huge smile. A sigh erupts, washing out to sea any hard feelings. Even better? I don’t carry around that immense weight of blame and grievance, I don’t see myself as a victim. Thank you, dear amigo. 

But I’m still left with the problem of how to continue to have a Santa Clarita Valley without you in it and I guess there, right in front of me, lies the answer. 

You’re still in the Santa Clarita Valley, Rick. You always will be. You helped build this wonderful valley, left ten thousand and then-some instructions on how to keep it rolling along smoothly, with kindness, mirth, wisdom and more than a little bit of monkey business. 

Always? Thanks for the help. Thank you for — continuing — to be my friend …