Ski

 His birthday was October 6^th. Born in 1962, he died in February of 2025 at the age of 62. Too young, too soon. Michael J Skoczenski.

I remember when I first noticed him in a busy, noisy hallway at Waterville High School. I was standing outside my classroom monitoring the halls during class change. I was a new teacher and was used to lots of students walking by and checking me out. But Michael approached me directly.

“Good Morning, Mr. Foss.” He spoke with a deep radio announcer’s voice and a smile on his face. He was well dressed in tan kakis and a button-down collared shirt, so distinct from the tee shirt and blue jean horde. And he walked with a bounce, more like a strut. He exuded confidence and good humor. And when he laughed, which he often did, he threw his head back and cackled loudly. A delightful laugh.

I did not have him in class. He was a high achiever, and my students were middle/low achievers. But, between classes, he would frequently wander into my room. I felt like he had adopted me, which was fine by me. I liked him.

When I moved to a new job in the paper industry, I lost track of him. He graduated, went on to college studying accounting, got married and raised a family, got divorced and lost him job. All details I learned after the fact. I hired him as a summer intern and gave him rides to work. So did my sons who were also working summer jobs at the mill.

He was a small, thin man and did not handle alcohol very well. Yet he drank a lot. And smoked lots of pot.

He moved to Portland and worked at a biotech startup. He was content. Until he was mugged at an ATM machine late one night on Commercial Street. A crowbar to the skull, in the hospital for months and persistent seizures.

We visited often at his public housing one room apartment until the seizures became too frequent and too severe. He moved to a Traumatic Brain Injury home up country, but we stayed in touch with visits, phone calls and postcards. Until he died.

The kid never quit, He would not complain, but he would rage, venting his anger at this “rat bastard” or that. His favorite saying, “Hahd tellin, not knowin.” At the end of every phone call, he would say ,“I’ll let you be. Tell Mutha (my wife) I love her.”

I miss the little rat bastahd.