Stephen Gerringer
Jon and I met 33 years ago, when he was working at Mondo Java in Modesto, one of my favorite local coffee hangouts at the time. One late Friday night, when the music ended and the place was closing up, he invited me to join a few other friends at his dad's – which is how I met his father, Dan, and eventually his mother, Jane, and brother, Jeremy, as well as so many other incredible young people who, like Jon, were just starting out on their life journey. In the ensuing months Jon and his friends became a second family to me as we bonded over good coffee, good conversation, good books, great (and "Grateful") music, the occasional magic mushroom, and drum circles galore.
Everyone who knew Jon would agree he was easy to love – guys loved him, and girls tended to fall in love with him. He was one of the most generous, most chill, and kindest individuals I've ever known. Even-keeled and even-tempered, can't say I ever saw him angry, save for the day his beloved "Bill the Cat" succumbed from drinking transmission fluid a neighbor had set out to poison strays in the area.
Though Jon was fifteen years my junior, he felt like a brother – and we kept in touch over the years. When he moved to Santa Rosa, I did my best to see him three or four times a year, and even visited Jon and his paramour, Kelly, in Springfield, Missouri, when he was working the pre-dawn shift as a baker with the St. Louis Bread Company.
It seems appropriate, given how we met in a coffee house, that the last photo I have of Jon is of him sipping coffee on my couch at an ungodly hour of the morning, shortly before putting him on a train back to Petaluma, just two months before Covid turned the world upside down.
What I wouldn't give for one more hug . . .
May the four winds blow you safely home, my Friend
27 days
ago
Lauren Holdway
