I'll Miss You, "Not It"

"John died," Mom said. I almost dropped the phone.

I knew he'd been declining for weeks. I knew when I heard he'd gone off of the dialysis that it was only going to be a matter of time.

I knew John Vance was going to die.

However, knowing something will happen and having it happen are and always will be two entirely different things.

John Vance, "Not It," "Big John," is dead.

I've been sitting in front of this screen for hours trying to find what to say here. You know something means a lot when my never-ending mouth stops talking.

John knew everyone in Opelika, and I do mean almost everyone.

He knew family trees; he could recall names and faces better than any politician I've ever met.

Someone could say their name, and he'd instantly respond with "Oh, you're old {Insert Name Here's} cousin" and proceed to barrage them with their own family's history.

He could remember details and insignificant events from almost 40 years ago and talk about them with me and make feel like I was there and had seen them, too.

John Vance was probably one of the greatest storytellers who ever lived. Half of Opelika's oral history may have died with him.

We could all sit there be listening to story he'd told us 30 times before, but we'd all sit there, listen, and legitimately laugh and cry and emote because he brought the world he was telling us about alive.

He never met a stranger. He was never afraid to stop and say "Hello" to anyone and strike up a conversation. He'd give them advice on where to go eat or something to tell do, or tell them a funny joke.

I think he most enjoyed being a Transit driver at Auburn University. He'd always have stories about his "kids" on the bus, his athletes and foreign exchange students and Yankees. He'd chat them up, learning their life story over a matter of a few simple five to ten minute bus rides. He'd go to their softball games and cheer them on. He took an interest. He genuinely and truly cared.

He loved being around people. He lived to love and encourage others. He wanted to make other people happy.

That was John.

John never had children.

Instead, he had family friends of his with children - children whom he treated like some sort of magical, amazing uncle.

I consider myself so incredibly blessed to be one of them.

We all had nicknames, we all got gifts and birthday presents, random phone calls for lunch and dinner invites.

When the McCollum and Gore clans would head with him to Panama City to the Vance Family Beach House (Coke Haven, Too --- due to his family's involvement with Coca-Cola Corp.), there'd always be a point when everyone else was at the beach where he and I would sneak away for a burger at Mike's Diner and a good, long chat about all the important things in life: friends, good TV shows, taking time to appreciate the small things, and, most importantly in a young man's life (as I was at the the time): women.

He taught me about how I needed to watch old movies - "They're better," he would say. "The writing, the acting - it was creative then." He's why I know about Humphrey Bogart, Errol Flynn, Katharine Hepburn ... he's the reason why I know classic films. We all know that's a big part of my identity now, and I owe to him.

I may not always have loved the beach, but I loved my side trips with John - "our time."

He still texted every game day or any day he knew I had something important happening to wish me luck and tell me to be safe.

He'd honk if he saw me while driving his transit around Auburn, stop and talk if he could.

I think I can say for all of "John's kids" that I know he'll always have a special place in our hearts.

He may not have been our flesh and blood family, but he sure felt like it to me.

Christmas morning, there'll be an empty spot at brunch for him - I know that. He'd been a happy part of our Christmas morning for as long as I can remember and still will be.

John, I love you, and I'm happy you're finally in a place where you're in no pain or sorrow. I know there was a big parade there waiting for you, with your beloved parents there at the head of the line waiting to see you. Y'all have got some good catching up to do.

Thank you for everything you've meant in my life, and I wait for the day when you and I get to share some stories again. Just save me a doughnut or a burger and have a good joke ready.

'Til we meet again, old friend.