Rest in Peace, Brenna

Brenna L. Whitehead
Brenna Whitehead, a Hollister resident, died February 20. She was 53.
Mrs. Whitehead was born in California and raised by her grandparents in Grand Prairie, Texas. She has lived in Hollister for the last 10 years after moving here from San Martin.
Mrs. Whitehead is survived by her husband Terry Hubbard of Hollister, son, Trevor Gonzalez of San Jose, son Sean Markham of Livermore, daughter Tammy Bails of Arizona, brother Greg Ferrare of Colorado.
A memorial service will be Friday at 11 a.m. at Black Cooper Sander Funeral Home. Ed Sweeney will officiate. Cremation will be followed by private inurnment.

I was listening to Radioio yesterday afternoon when an old Grateful Dead tune came on. Recognized it as one I'd heard them play years ago at Red Rocks. Got me thinking about my life back then, and wondering what happened to the people I used to know in Colorado Springs. So I pulled up Google and started putting in names...

Most of them were dead ends, names too common, no way of telling if they were the person I knew then.

Bren, the last name I put in was yours, but not because you were the least important to me. I knew your name was uncommon enough that if I got a match it would most likely really be you. But I was avoiding it, got a gut feeling I might not like what I'd find when I hit that search key...

I read your obit through a second time after the initial shock, thinking random thoughts... This web page is from 2001, guess I'm lucky they didn't take it down or I'd never know... Didn't know your boys had different last names, you must've named them for their dads. Didn't know about Tammy, you only had Sean & the baby with you back then...So, you ended up in California too. Lived in Hollister since '91. Small world, I'd driven by there more than a few times on the way to Santa Cruz during the time you were there... You were married when you died, hope he was a good man to you...

Don't know if you remember the night we met, it was at a party outside someone's house. We started talking and there was something about you that made me want to get to know you better. I know you had a few years on me and you were about 8 months pregnant, but that didn't matter. You had that fun-loving sparkle in your eyes, (no, I'm not gonna get all sappy on you) but there was also a hard edge to your smile that said "I seen worse shit than you can even think about, so you better not fuck with me." I admire those qualities in a woman.

The next time I saw you was a few months later, after Trevor was born. I'd moved over to the west side of Colorado Springs, and it turned out the place you were renting was only a few blocks away. So we ended up getting together, mainly as friends, but sometimes more...

"... there's a glass on the table, they say it's gonna ease all my pain,
Oh when I drink it down, but the next day I still feel the same..." - Janis Joplin

I know I was a pretty hardcore drinker back then. I could kill a pint of Jim Beam on a Friday night with a couple joints for a kicker, and recover enough to go back out Saturday night and do it all over again. But you could drink me under the table. Bacardi was your chosen poison then. Wonder if you tamed that demon before you died?

I remember once you borrowed my phone so you could call your grandparents in Grand Prairie. You was pretty much sober at the time, we had literally one or two drinks. I could only hear your side of the conversation: "No!, No! I haven't been drinking! Why don't you believe me?" They hung up on you, and you started crying.

I held you while you cried. I guess more than once you'd called them when you were drinking and feeling down, and now they thought this was another drunken call. But you really just wanted to talk to them. You were as sober as you could get, but they didn't believe you.

We eventually did make the drive down to Texas in my old Chevy van to show them the new baby. I think it was over Christmas. They seemed like nice enough folks, and your grandma made great biscuits and gravy for breakfast.

So what else do I remember about you? You wore cowboy boots, and if Sean was across the room doing something he wasn't supposed to, you could throw a boot with remarkable accuracy. You had a tumbleweed with lights in it for your Christmas tree, said it was a Texas thing. We used to hang out and watch "Dukes of Hazzard" every week on TV. You told me how you gave birth to Trevor in your apartment, with only little Sean there to help (he cut the cord), and your dogs at your side for moral support.

I loved those expressions you had, like if I did something stupid you'd say "You ain't got the brains God promised a retarded pissant." Or if someone did something dangerously stupid but managed to escape injury you'd say "God looks after fools, drunks, and little children."

I remember when Blanca got hit by a car. You couldn't afford a vet, and a vet probably would have just put the dog down anyway because she was so badly injured. But somehow you managed to take care of that dog to where she survived and was able to walk again, although somewhat crippled.

We took a trip down to Royal Gorge one day. You cracked up at the "No Fishing" sign they had posted out on the bridge, since the water is about a thousand feet below, but I guess some fool must've tried it. I remember the Janis Joplin like smile you had on your face when I took your picture standing on that bridge...

Sean was a little daredevil on a bike or skateboard, but was having trouble with a bully at school. I tried to tell him to be tough, and fight back. I held my hand out and told him to hit it as hard as he could, but he hit it weakly. I told him you gotta hit harder, but he wouldn't. Then you said "Leave him alone, he's a lover not a fighter..."

Parting words:

Brenna, you were a hard living woman when I knew you. I was concerned you wouldn't be around much longer, the way you were drinking. But you made it damn near another 20 years, long enough to see the kids grow up. Sorry for the times I fought with you over stupid things, but that was just the whiskey talking in me. I could be an asshole at times when I used to drink like that. You know I loved you anyways.

Even though you were only in my life a short time, you are one of the women I will always remember. You were one of the few I knew who didn't bullshit or play games. You were honest and true, and always spoke your mind.

Hope you found peace and happiness in Northern California. Hope your husband was a good match for you, and that he treated you kindly. Your kids are out on their own now, making their way in the world. I know they didn't have it easy growing up. Hope they are doing well, and that you left this earth on good terms with them.

As for me, I've been married twenty years now, she's been a good woman for me. Not perfect, but none of us are. She helped me get my shit together, I gave up the dope, quit smoking, and mostly cut back on the drinking. Got a son who just turned seventeen, he'll be ready to find his own path soon...

I'm not much of a true believer in the afterlife, but if there is one I'll try my best to find you. I'll buy you a drink at St. Pete's bar, and we can talk about what we did with our lives in those years after our days in Colorado.

Goodbye Bren...

"Going home, going home,
By the waterside I will rest my bones,
Listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul..." - Grateful Dead