I reflect on my ‘perfect childhood’ a lot here in these pages; it was a remarkable combination of purpose, play, people and place. The place was Gilchrist, Texas, situated on the Gulf Coast’s Bolivar Peninsula, a 30-mile finger of land sporting a smattering of small towns and all of the wonderful and unique characters that tiny towns naturally harbor. Like all kids, I had a group of special friends, and you may have read about how one of those friends reached out to me recently, remembering those innocent and joyful days. If not, take a gander:
Hurricane Ike Did Away with Gilchrist and My Childhood Home
Hurricane Ike decimated my home town of Gilchrist in 2008, taking all but one yellow house. You may remember the story: a 22-24 ft. storm surge devastated much of the Bolivar Peninsula, and the only remaining house in Gilchrist, a tiny town of 600, was dubbed by the media as The Last One Standing.
My Mom had died in 2000, and my Dad, remarried, sold his house and moved 15 miles inland several years later, so it wasn’t our house any more when it was obliterated by the storm surge in 2008. But the loss of the town where I grew up still had an emotional impact. I often dream of our beach house, that magical little home on stilts where our family of four was an unshakable, unbreakable, unstoppable, cohesive unit, where everyone was safe, everyone was valued, everyone was loved—unconditionally.
Sometimes the dreams are benevolent and pleasant; I might be making cookies with my younger cousins or riding my bike in the shallow surf with my brother. Sometimes, though, hurricane-driven waves are lapping at the floorboards and all of us are desperate to evacuate. How blessed I am that these are only dreams and not a reality I had to live through, like many of my childhood friends, including Tracy, the inspiration for this post.
Gilchrist is Gone, But We Have Gumbo Cove
Gilchrist as I remember it is gone, but our little ‘bay camp’ on stilts in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, whimsically named Gumbo Cove, has the same beachy, relaxed vibe and sense of place that Gilchrist taught me to love. It brings me back to a slower, more reflective state of mind and an appreciation of nature that’s peaceful, restorative and quietly joyful.
Why This Post?
Today, I’m remembering my childhood friend Tracy Lee Adams on his birthday and sharing the story of how I brought his ashes to Gumbo Cove to honor him—and keep him ‘top of mind’.
Tracy was One of the Good Guys, and Family
It was shocking to hear that Tracy passed away, so relatively young and so very vibrant, at only 56 (obituary here). I jumped at the chance to speak at his funeral, which was delayed because he died during the dreadful COVID period, and I wrote the following homage. It’s funny—I speak at conferences and have even been a keynote speaker a time or three, with no trace of nervousness, but on this occasion, I was dry-mouthed, nervous, and my hands were shaking as I held my speech. I think it was because I so earnestly wanted to do his memory justice.
Although my delivery was terrible, I’m proud of what I wrote because the Tracy I remember is alive in those words. He was family.
Homage to Tracy, Delivered in a Shaky Voice at His Funeral
Tracy is here. He can hear us. I don’t know if he can actually hear us, because I don’t know how heaven works. I hope I will someday. But I’ve learned that when you lose someone, they don’t really leave you. They just take a different form in your life, a different kind o permanent residence in your heart. You carry them with you: their essence, their voice, their uniqueness, for the rest of your life. You see something, and think, Wow, Dad would really love that. Or hear something, and know, Steve would really think that was funny. Or experience something, and think, I can’t wait to tell Tracy that. And then you do tell him, but in the quiet conversation of your heart, a heart that’s bigger forever for having had that person in your life. You know. You’ve been doing that with your own Tracy imprint in these months since he died.
So, since he can hear, either literally or through your memories of him, I’m going to speak directly to him.
Tracy, to me, you were the like the proverbial boy next door. You didn’t actually live next door, but close, by Bolivar Peninsula standards, since both our families were in Gilchrist. I think of you in “boy next door” terms because you embodied all the characteristics: you were friendly, honest, wholesome, true, loyal, fun. A boy and then a man with a big smile and a big heart, and a bit of a wry take on life. You were that friend to many, many who are here grieving and celebrating you. You were an “and” person. As in Tracy and Wendy. Mark and Tracy. Tracy and Stevie. Dean and Tracy. Tracy and … insert your name. But you weren’t a sidekick – you were yourself, someone others always wanted on their team, at their party, in their Marine Corps unit, in their life. You were an inclusive person, a servant leader, a person others could trust to be on their side and help solve their problem.
Although I had a brother, you felt like an extra one to me, growing up, because we were the same age and you understood. I’m not the only one in this room, Tracy, who knows that a person in a conversation with you had your full attention. You were present, in the moment, fully there with your heart and soul. We could talk about our crushes and adolescent romances, and I could cry on your shoulder, but you also always told me when I was full of it, or had no chance. You could make me laugh through my tears. You could make anyone in this room laugh through their tears, and probably still are making them laugh, through their memories of your wit and constant smile.
Remember all those times we went to church together, and how close our families became? My whole family loved you, loved your whole family, but my Dad held you in particularly high regard for your trumpet playing. He saw in you what he had hoped to be before he burst a lung in his early 20s playing trumpet and my Mom made him put it down forever. He lent you his prized Stan Kenton 45 records so you could listen and share your opinion with him. He mentioned that connection with you many times later in his life. It meant the world to me – and to him – when you called me after hearing of his illness while he was in the hospital. The years we spent apart fell away during that call as you and I laughed, and shared, and sighed. And also cried a little. I loved hearing how proud you were of your sons and their families, and how close you still were to your siblings.
You were born to be the perfect Marine, Tracy. I remember when you told me you were joining, I thought, of course. Semper Fi! Steadfast loyalty, always faithful. Boy next door! The Marines will see your value, and hold on to you. And that’s what happened. You were in that role for two decades. The boy (or girl) next door servant leader is the prototype of who we want protecting us, and we thank you. It’s not surprising that you earned all of those accolades that are listed in your obituary.
So, in closing, thinking of your vibrant spirit, Tracy, I spent a lot of time trying to decide on a metaphor for you. I finally hit on one with your athletic talent. You were a football star and a track star, but the aspect that stands out to me was the relays you ran. That’s what you did with each of us in out lives, Tracy. Whether you were behind, handing off the baton with full-throated encouragement, knowing we could do it, or ahead of us, taking the baton we had given you to bring it on home safely, you were there for us.
You are there for us now, at the finish line, waiting to take the baton from each of us one last time and rejoice together.
Semper Fi, Tracy. Semper Fi.
A Funeral and Then a Beachy Celebration of Life
The funeral was a special event, and very well-attended. But the more informal beachy tribute the next day, held at a beach house in Crystal Beach, another of the small towns in the string-of-pearls townships that make up the Bolivar Peninsula, was one of the most memorable celebrations of life I’ve ever attended. Tracy’s family and the funeral / remembrance director (another close friend from childhood) created a beautiful experience for us all to grieve for him together, and to rejoice that he had been in our lives.
Accompanied by My Niece
My niece Joie accompanied me to the funeral and celebration of life. She wanted to learn more about Tracy, my childhood friend, but also to meet people who remembered her Dad, my brother, who also left us too soon. What a trooper she was! We were early for the celebration of life, so we drove slowly down the beach and parked, drinking tiny cans of sparkling wine and listening to Boston’s Don’t Look Back, one of the anthems of my high school years, really loud. My brother and I used to do that, too, although it was cheap beer instead of decent bubbly. I still tear up at the memory of sharing those special moments with this very special lady.
A Memorable Ceremony
The ceremony at the beach house was lovely. I don’t have pictures because it seemed disrespectful to take photos during the ceremony, but I learned so much from watching Marines solemnly fold a flag together in the strong coastal wind. They acted in perfect harmony, keeping eyes on each other at all times, and reversed course in tandem if something minor went wrong. There movements were synchronized; their concentration and reverence were moving and inspiring beyond words.
Tracy was well and truly honored and remembered.
Ashes to Waves
After the celebration of life, we took to the waves, discarding shoes and diving into memories as we each solemnly released our portion of Tracy’s ashes into the Gulf. It was deeply meaningful.
Some of us took a group photo, and I’m so glad to have this memento. School friends, now scattered from Florida to California and points in between, connected through our memories, our lasting regard for each other, and occasional reunions.
Taking Tracy to Gumbo Cove
My niece is an empath. A social worker, Joie GETS how people feel. She saved her funeral ashes rather than scattering them and gave them to me later that day, knowing that I would want to bring them to Gumbo Cove. It’s my new Gilchrist, the place where I reconnect with my roots, my purpose, true self, my memories of those extraordinarily special and free formative years.
I took her Tracy-memory ashes to Gumbo Cove on the next trip, and had another ceremony with them, bringing those precious memories to my new happy place.
I know without any doubt that Tracy would have loved this. And he also would have found a way to make it funny. Without.A.Doubt.
Imprints
I marvel, upon reading this tome, at how much my tribute to Tracy is also about me.
But I also give myself some grace about that.
All true stories are autobiographical in some way, and there wouldn’t be a need for remembrances if the person hadn’t been integral, instrumental or inspirational to us. Remembrances are personal; a retracing of permanent imprints, like fossils on our hearts.
A Further Reflection
For me, no story I craft about my memories of Tracy would be complete without one or more pictures of his sister, Wendy. They were a dynamic duo, in the same class with me at school by virtue of how close they were in age. They were close in every other way, too, and I’m so happy to still be friends and in touch with Wendy. Here they are, the way I remember them from school, in a brother-and-sister pic from the senior prom in 1981.
That’s Wendy and me below (she’s on the right) at the last big high school reunion in 2024, with another of our special classmates.
Til We Meet Again
I think of my Dad’s regard for Tracy, rooted in large part in the musical talent they shared, and one of the main lines of an standard from the American songbook comes to mind as a fitting close to this story that will never really be over as long as we remember Tracy, sung in this version by Old Blue Eyes with a Dorsey-like swing band with trumpets that both Tracy and Dad would have loved.
“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places”, Tracy.
© 2025, Glover Gardens
Lovely tribute to a special friend.
Thank you, Anabel. I appreciate that.