Linda

Not too long ago Gil dropped Pam and I off at a tequila festival. He was nice to act as our personal, and free, Uber, so we wouldn’t be in danger of driving under the influence. Sitting in the back seat of his expansive car, I felt as though I was 12 again; yes, he actually pointed out the restrooms to us as he parked to let us out. 

And he also, amazingly enough, still does that scary driving thing! He has perfected the most terrifying driving technique: He casually drives, with military precision, a hair-width from parked cars, all while his passengers are gripping anything they can and holding their breath. He feigns oblivious to our terror. Well, maybe not quite—there’s an ever so slight mischievous smile. 

In Whittier in the 70s, there was only one house where you could hear John Coltrane playing. That might be an exaggeration, but probably not. My parents view of hip music was limited to Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass. With Gil in the house, it was like inside baseball of music. More connoisseur than aficionado, he was never a snob. We were as likely to hear the pop group Chicago as we were Miles Davis. 

His comprehensive collection became a music education for all of Pam’s friends. For those us stuck in the cultural purgatory of the suburbs, this was our lifeline.