Sunday, November 10, 2019
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There are friends, there are good friends, and there are friendships that enlarge your fundamental understanding of what it means to be human -- that's how much Michael Durkan meant to me. I met Michael at the tender age of 18, and he was 22, living with Peter Sandiford and Dennis Rarie in Endicott.
At that stage of life, four years was a big difference, but really the gulf that separated the two of us was much larger than a few years of age. He had served in Vietnam and I had just left my mother's house in the Bronx to go to college at SUNY Binghamton.
I was aimless and immature, while he was welcoming, self-assured with a great spirit that few possess. Michael had a unique distillation of sunshine that coursed in his blood that shone into the world through the twinkle in his eyes and the vibrancy of his laughter.
I remember partying with him in the 1970s in his apartment over the Pine Lounge, one bitterly cold night in Binghamton. There were some teens drinking beer nearby outside and we could hear what was going on. Many would have chased them away. Michael went down and insisted that they come inside, and they were shivering. His message to them was: "There's always a warm place you can come to." A simple act of love and acceptance -- something the world could use more of.
All who knew Michael can attest to his peaceful, easygoing nature.But he had courage and backbone the rest of us could only envy. His obituary describes his role in the Rock Bottom Dam rescue in 1975, and how he almost lost his life in that effort. The local paper included Michael when it described memorial services in 2015, 40 years after the tragedy:
"Speaking to the crowd in a pride-filled voice Tuesday, Durkan said he went home after the rescue to clean himself up, then returned to his duties later that same night. Closing his speech, Durkan pointed to the some 20 uniformed firefighters standing at attention to his right and said that’s what this job is all about."
Michael led a platoon in Vietnam, and I once asked him if he had to enforce discipline among his troops. In fact, he said, he once had to fight one of them to do so. "I hope you won," I said. "Yes Dave, thank God I did."
Michael had a way with words, and a number of expressions he directed my way will always be close to my heart, like "Knock yourself out, buddy." and "You got that right." "Si si" was his way of responding in the affirmative. When he thought I was being particularly obtuse he would say, "come on, Dave. Use your loaf."
Michael also had the habit of spontaneously bursting into snippets of song. For example, before we drove to New York City - which he always called Big Town -- it was "New York City, You're a Woman," by Al Kooper. When he felt like teasing me about my karate lessons, it was "Everybody is kung fu fighting ." This was in the 1970s and I didn't know the song, by Jack Black and Ceelo Green, so I just filed it away somewhere in my brain.
A few years ago, I finally heard the Kung fu song on the radio. I turned to my wife and said "hey.. that's the song Michael always sang."
It took 40 years to know what Michael sang. It took even longer to fully appreciate how incredibly lucky I have been to have him as a friend. God bless you Mike, I will love you forever. Your buddy, David Zigas
