Sometime in the late 90s, when I was working at a news/talk radio station in Salem, a somewhat disheveled but friendly guy walked into the studios, saying he was looking for someone to do some voicework for him. He and I got to talking, and in his Brooklyn accent, he said he had a small business that did phone on-hold messaging for several clients. I said I was interested, so we struck a deal, and that was the beginning of my friendship with Jerry Schneider.
Shortly after that, Jerry called me and said he had an extra ticket to see Elvis Costello in Portland and asked, would you like to go? Yes, of course! I jumped at the chance. I’d seen Elvis at his first stop in Portland in 1978; an infamous (among local Elvis fans) stop on his first American tour that ended abruptly when some asshole in the audience threw an M-80 explosive onto the stage.
It turns out that Jerry, although not adept at anything musical, was a huge live music fan. He went to rock shows, bluegrass, blues, reggae, you name it. He often told me stories about volunteering at bluegrass festivals so that he could see the music over a long weekend of performances.
Our friendship consisted of attending music, going out for breakfast, one of his favorite activities, talking about our growing kids, and hanging out. He was the kind of guy who was always thoughtful with a card or birthday or Christmas gift, although as a Jew, he didn’t celebrate Christmas himself.
And he was a frugal guy. He knew so many people at thrift stores by name that sometimes I thought he nearly lived there. Five years ago, when I was preparing a house I owned for sale, he offered to help (for a price—he would do a lot of work over the next several months), and his home repair and upkeep expertise was invaluable.
He enjoyed skiing, and although we ended up on the slopes together only a few times, he occasionally mentioned the time I took him and his two kids up to Hoodoo Ski Bowl back in 2006. The four of us had a wild time in a snowy world. One time, a few years back, we drove to Albany for a special promo night that Hoodoo was having: giveaways, promos, special deals, and so on.
My wife Jenny adored Jerry, and the three of us often hung out in our living room or backyard, just catching up and sharing things about our lives.
Jerry wasn’t my closest friend, and we would often go months without communicating. Three years ago, when I hadn’t heard from him for quite a while, I reached out so that we could schedule a breakfast. When we sat down, he said the reason he’d been quiet and staying away from friends was that he had something to tell me. He’d recently learned he had HPV throat cancer and had been going through treatments for it. For a while, the treatments were working, and things seemed to be going well, but the cancer returned. Then, it went into remission but eventually returned for a third time.
During those three years, Jerry attended concerts, learned things, and lived life. One time, he spent a week or so in Hawaii learning to sail, which seemed out of character for him, but after that, he talked with great knowledge about sailing and what it might be like to do that seriously for a while.
Jerry and I went to a Howard Jones concert a couple of years ago after Jenny gave up her ticket for him. My wife and I went to an Al DiMeola concert and found out later that he had also been there. We also took him to see Herbie Hancock at an outdoor concert in September 2021. I also took Jerry to see Roger Waters in September 2022.
Last June, I received a call from Jerry. It was a few days before my birthday, and he said that he had a ticket to see Elvis Costello and the Imposters, with Nick Lowe as the opening act. The show was in Bend, which was only a few days away. I hesitated because that day was a big party for my mom’s 95th birthday (and my 68th), but after thinking about it, I said, of course, we’ll make it work. I’d drive to Bend; we’d go to the concert and return that night. It’s about a two-and-a-half-hour trip each way. We had a helluva time.
It was a new moon that night, and as I was getting into exploring Milky Way photography, I asked if it was okay if we stopped at the top of Santiam Pass on the way home so I could set up my tripod and snap some star pix. He said sure, and while he watched me work for a few minutes, he shortly excused himself, saying he would rest in the car until I was done.
In January of this year, my wife and I had tickets to see the Wooten Brothers in Portland. It was an icy, snowy night, and Jerry had told us he bought a ticket, too, but that day he was returning from a family visit in New York. He expected to catch an Uber from the airport and show up for at least part of the show. But with the show nearly over, I hadn’t heard from him. I texted him and asked about his status, and he said he was still at the airport. Thanks to a late flight and a confounding Uber driver who picked up the wrong person (and other weird things), we picked him up at the airport and brought him back to Salem.
That night, Jerry made a comment that still rings in my ears. We were talking about upcoming shows on our radar, and he said something like, “Well, I’m not sure how far out I should buy tickets, you know…”
We knew he was still battling cancer, but he only shared minimal details, enough to see that it was still a struggle, although he was hopeful.
I was not all that good at gift-giving, but I did remember his birthday this year and offered to take him out for breakfast. When we sat at the table on February 29th, I laughed and said, “So how’s it feel to finally be sixteen years old?”
He laughed. We had a great time.
In the middle of May, Jerry came by our house and dropped a birthday card through the mail slot for Jenny. He didn’t stop to visit. For my birthday and for Christmas, he often gave me odd, cheap, touching gifts. Like a Bob Marley framed photo he picked up at an estate sale. Or the PGA 121st US Open baseball cap he found for a dollar at a thrift store. Or a wall clock that looked like a vinyl record. My birthday is on June 9th, and I half-expected him to drop a small gift or card or say hello, but I didn’t hear from him. I didn’t think much of him. A week and a half later, with Salem’s Make Music Day in full swing, I texted him: Are you getting out for Make Music Day today? I figured if he was feeling okay, it was an event that he would not miss.
No reply.
A couple of days later, Jenny was scrolling through social media and said, “Oh my God, Jerry. He’s gone.” She’d seen a post from one of Jerry’s good friends, who shared the sad news and several photos of them together at shows.
Jerry Schneider passed away on June 10th, 2024.
Hard to believe he’s gone. Man, I’m gonna miss that guy.
Beyond
One of my buddies refers to the end of life as “when the Big Guy in the sky pulls your Fun Ticket.” It’s as apt as any description I’ve heard. Just search online for euphemisms for death, and you’ll find a jillion of them: rest in peace, pushing up daisies, buying the farm, shuffling off this mortal coil, giving up the ghost, cashing in their chips, and so on.
Death is such a weird human construct. One minute, we’re here; the next, we’re not. I don’t care what you believe happens to your soul, or whatever you want to call it, after your body gives up the ghost. It comes to all of us. But death, from my perspective, is often something that comes as a great surprise to those people around the person who dies.
The planet has been spinning around the sun for several billion years. Humans and their ancestors have been walking the planet for about 6 million years. Human civilizations started forming around 6,000 years ago. The average life span is around 75-80 years in this modern age, which means that the time we spend on this planet is a mere blip in the great stretch of observable (or even comprehensible) time. Yet, we put so much into that time span. For most of our lives, most of us believe or live as if we are invulnerable. It’s only when we reach the so-called halfway point that many of us start to consider that we start to seriously consider or even prepare for the end, which we know, at least intellectually, will come.
We like to think we’ll leave some sort of legacy behind. We want people to remember us in some fashion. We want to be seen. It’s our ego, of course, which is why many of us spend money on things, like donating to an organization, so they can build something with our name on it, for example. I have hundreds of songs, tens of thousands of photographs, and many things I’ve written. Who knows if anyone will hear, see, or read them? I’d like to think so, but hey, I’ll be gone, so it doesn’t matter.
What I seem to remember the most about those friends and family who are gone is the sound of their voices. Perhaps I’m an aural kind of person; after all, I play music and spent a lifetime behind a radio microphone, so a person’s voice sticks with me: the way they talked, the way they laughed, the things they said. Those memories are not hard to call up, especially someone’s laugh; it’s a unique yet universal thing we do as humans.
As for Jerry, I can still recall his laugh: it was subtle, and he didn’t often laugh out loud, nor did he laugh a lot, even though he smiled frequently. And I can still remember him saying, with that East Coast accent, “Well, I would tell you…” before he went off into a long story or explanation of something. He liked to talk. That’s how I’ll remember him, for his great stories.