Memories of Nikki

It is with deep sadness that I sit down tonight to celebrate the vibrant life of my friend Nikki.  


We all - in the end - die in the middle of a story... of many stories. But Nikki's life was taken from us far too soon, and it is difficult to understand why such heartbreakingly tragic things happen to such worthy, wholesome families. 
 

However, huger than my grief over loosing such a special person is my admiration and appreciation for the inspiring woman she was; I am incredibly blessed to call Nikki my friend. This evening, I remember a few of the significant things Nikki taught me, and how wonderful her story made all of ours.

Nikki and I first met as little ones. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but seeing how our boys interact now, I am sure it involved hysterical giggling, floor-rolling, and toy-snatching. 

Over the years, I have many bright memories of Nikki – 

Diving for rings and pennies in the Homer Pool (always with a watchful eye on Bridget so we could sneak in a game of chicken on the huge, red, foam mats when she wasn't looking),

Riotous water balloon tosses, wild whip cream fights, and blindfolded games of stack-the-cotton balls at birthday parties. 

Rapid twirling in matching red party dresses until we fell down from dizziness - skirts fanned out around us.

Building fairy castles at Bishop’s Beach. 

Leaving summer fundraising car washes in water-soaked sweats and big smiles.

Growing up with Nikki was entertaining, exciting, and silly - but it was when we both became mothers that our relationship truly flourished. When she got pregnant with Hank, Nikki started gushing and never stopped. I remember how tenderly she held that little, red-haired bundle when he was first born; how expertly she discussed cloth diapers, homemade baby food, the right kind of vitamins; how she struggled and overcame the pains and challenges of nursing; how she fretted over Hank's colds when he was first exposed to germs at daycare. 

I remember her and Hank soaring down the snow-covered hills on Ohlsen Mountain; her pushing Hank on the swings at Karen Hornaday; us watching the boys drive their yellow toy excavators around Lauren's high tunnel - spit bubbles, "zroom zrooms," and occasional temper-tantrums abounding.

 

Nikki was also an amazing athlete. I have a groggy, adolescent memory of waking up to Nikki doing push-ups and crunches before school on the checkered carpet samples that covered the Fry's basement. I thought she was completely insane. I mean, this was before school! But as an adult, I loved training with Nikki. She pushed me constantly to go farther and faster while running and at Boot Camp. Boy, that girl could move! But my favorite activity was power walking with her up Baycrest or around my neighborhood. We'd chat comfortably, mostly about mundane things - our kids, families, upcoming birthday parties or baby showers. Miles would pass.

A generous and caring friend, Nikki gave me unending advice and support while planning our wedding and was there with casseroles, love, and tiny hats when both my sons were born. She taught me many things over the years - about making creative but simple dinners, planning elaborate Pinterest parties, writing timely thank you cards, building things (I'll never forget how comfortable Nikki was with a drill - she was such a bad ass!).

But most importantly, Nikki taught me about friendship and family. She loved her family. They were the most important things to her. It's incredibly simple, but true. 

Nikki's abiding love for Nate and Hank sustained her. She believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In the most important way, Nikki was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.

With her mom, dad and sister; with her husband and son; with all of us, Nikki had a lot of fun. She treasured happiness. I have an inordinate amount of "Nikki on Halloween" memories: carving pumpkins, Nikki dressed up as the Color Blue, passing out candy to trick-or-treaters before we had kids ourselves.

On Hank and Sawyer's first Halloween, Nikki brought over Save U More pizzas and big bags of chocolate. Great costumes, apple cider, and laughter filled the house. At that party, Lauren seemed unusually curious about whether or not the cider was spiked (it wasn't; the rum was on the side) and after she and Aaron left, Nikki and I speculated about her possible pregnancy.  I remember that Nikki was so excited about Hank and soon-to-be-born Wylie and Kellen being in the same class growing up. Looking back, that Halloween evening gossip-session is one of my most cherished memories with Nikki. 


Because of the generous and caring daughter, sister, wife, mother, and friend that she was, Nikki Marie Geragotelis will be sorely missed. But greater than the sorrow over her death is the joy that she spread in her life. She touched all of us with her energy, vitality, and sparkle. These will love on forever in our hearts, and we will continue her story. 

Please send your memories, stories, and photos to memoriesofnikki@gmail.com. They are being complied into a book for Hank and the family. There is also a memorial account set up at Wells Fargo that is accessible nationwide at any branch. Checks can be made out to Nikki Geragotelis Memorial. The family plans to create a memorial place for Nikki Geragotelis.

Soon... A Fisher Poem

Crouched on the bow,

Sleep crusting my eyelids half-shut,

I breathe in the stillness.

Ripples echo silently against the aluminum hull.

Mast lights twinkle with stars in the pre-dawn sky.

The fleet sleeps.

Soon, the skipper will rev the engine.

The boat will lurch forward.

I’ll yank the lever and the shrill squeak of the anchor winch

Will pierce my reverie like a flock of gossiping kittiwakes.

Chain will rattle, and my gloved hand will force each icy link to its proper place.

Soon, I’ll switch on the RSW, and its familiar whine will mix with

The aroma of perking coffee and diesel.

I’ll scoop orange globs of powdered Gateraid into my water bottle,

While Ibuprofen numbs my swollen and cracked hands.

The hour will strike and the skipper will signal,

Undetectable but to me.

The buoy will fly

And the net will whirl behind it, out into the chop.

Sharp as Victorinoxes,

My eyes will send the message “backlash” to the hand manning the break

Almost before it even happens.

Someone will shout, “Jumper!”

And the laugh lines around the skipper’s eyes will crinkle

Like a little boy’s on Christmas morning.

“Which side do you think they’re hittin’ from?” he’ll ask,

And hook the net into the current

Whether I shrug my shoulders or not.

A school will light up the net: Brilliant white and blue fireworks –

More exhilarating than any Fourth of July exhibition

Anywhere.

I’ll unhook the gear.

Pow! Pow! Pow!

The plunger will echo, metallic against hard sea,

As wild and robust as my heartbeat.

Another hit, then another.

“They’re poppin’ like popcorn,” the skipper will bellow.

And for a moment, I’ll feel invincible.

Soon, I will snap mesh from gills with a practiced flip of my wrist.

And nimbly slide 5/8” web over sleek, fat salmon bellies,

Once, twice, three hundred times an hour.

I will lift a hatch cover and guide thousands of pounds of bled reds

Into a hold of arctic sea water

With a gentle nudge of an Xtra Tuf.

  

My co-deckhand will pass a steaming mug of burnt casserole

And I’ll scarf it one-handedly, all the while leading the mast line

In a tedious dance over the power roller’s bunny ears,

Thinking – for what must be the six-millionth time –
“There’s got to be a more efficient way…”

I’ll switch my tired, wet hoodie for another salt-encrusted one

On the preface of having to pee.

The VHF will crackle  

And all day, I’ll seasaw between genuine affection for every Pete, Todd and Larry,

Who quell my boredom with their stupid antidotes and blatant boasting,

And red, hot rage for the white torture of their monotonous drones,

So strong that, sometimes, it takes every ouch of willpower

Not to rip that loudspeaker off its mount under the bridge

And hurl it unapologetically into the swell.

Soon, we’ll loose the race against the clock

And end up round hauling the last two shackles,

Stress dripping from our brows to the beat of the second hand.

On the run to the tender, we’ll pick and restack

And when we’re done, I’ll scrub the galley floor,

Scrapping scales off the silverware drawer with a maxed-out credit card,

Not even bothering to wonder at the irony

Of the silverware drawer being cleaner than me. 

Soon, I’ll rip the lassoing tie-up line out of the sky.

The boat will ease alongside the tender

And I’ll meld the stiff yellow fibers around the cleat like butter.

We’ll hook and unhook brailers in rapid succession,

Fingers spinning above our heads,

A signal to the crane operator as we hop out of the way,

Surprisingly nimble with three layers of fleece under our Grundens.

Soon, we’ll pull away from that tender,

And hose in hand, I’ll shimmy across the deck

Belting Tenacious D while my co-deckhand dips brailers

In between fits of girlish giggles.

Then, we’ll bicker pettily over which flavor of ice cream to buy from the fuel barge.

Sunbeams the color of salmon will drip slowly below the horizon.

The crew will huddle around a dog-eared Captain Jack at the galley table,

Sipping grog from chipped mugs

As the boat maneuvers into the slough.

And I’ll meander back up there,

Ready to set the anchor.

But for now, it’s just me.

Standing on the bow.

In the stillness.

And there’s no other bliss
Quite like it.

-Lila Johnson