Remembering Frank

I woke up Monday morning to my sister bawling, my father stern and avoiding all conversation—clearly hiding his emotions—and before my first sip of coffee I learned the news that a dear family friend had passed away. I've never really lost somebody before, expect my two great grandmothers and my two little bunnies. I somehow couldn't cry over the death of any of them. Perhaps because my great grandmothers were old and ready to let go of life, and my rabbits' deaths just somehow didn't faze me. I always thought that there was something wrong with me, because at my great grandmother's funeral I faked tears. I yawned and held my eyes open until my tear ducts produced some moisture but I never cried. I know that I am an extremely empathetic person, but those moments of not-crying made me feel like a total sociopath. I'm glad that's not true, because upon the death of Frank Oakes this Monday I total lost it. Within an hour of the news, (granted, in the privacy of my car going through McCully traffic) I was sobbing. I broke into the cafe like a neglected 7-year-old and collapsed into the arms of my coworker. Whatever it was that came over me, I'm glad it did, because it proves that I do have emotions. Thanks for that. I'm not a sociopath. On my way home I grew furious though, because Frank was not supposed to die yet.

He was in his late 60s, and probably the most inspiring person I know. He was my idol. He was a pioneer of organic and sustainable farming in Florida, started countless projects to involved the community; juice bars, health food stores, pick-your-own-strawberries (which were the best, by the way) and his most recent, an all-organic/local cafe/restaurant/store and its sister business an organic clothing/goods store. He worked his ass off to beat the Whole Foods that recently moved into town and he succeeded. He gave my sister a job, when she was a mere unreliable age of 13, and again just this past month. He gave my mom a job when we were technically not even legally in the US, wayyy back when I was in preschool. As my mom abandoned me in the shopping cart to find goods in his store, "Oakes Farms," he would come find me with a sample of freshly sliced fruit and feed me. Watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple... something delicious every time. He and his wife, Wendy babysat me when my mom and dad took a romantic weeks' vacation in Kauai (we were still living in Florida at the time) and played games with me after dinner. Frank was the kindest person ever. He would stop and drop everything to help another person out, and treated everyone with such respect and a wide smile. He was determined to feed everyone the full story about healthy food and yet did so with passion and a forgivable humor. And no matter what, he always told you that, "Everything's gonna be alright."

My fury was sparked by the unfairness of the whole thing. Why is it that Frank, the good man, who devoted his life to providing healthy food and awareness to others had the heart attack in his sleep? Why did he have to die of stress? He was up against all the corporations in the most corporate, suburban town in Florida, and yet he relentlessly farmed and did what he believed in. Nothing could stop him; not the damn Whole Foods down the street, not the toxic Tropicana fields around the corner, not even the frost that destroyed a good portion of his strawberry crop. He was truly my hero and yet he couldn't make it. The stress killed him. In his sleep. That is so so so so so so wrong. Why do the fat, white, corporate pigs that slurp up oil and squash families live to be 80 and sit on their gold and chortle and fart and squint their little piggy eyes down on everyone else, and Frank has do die. Someone please try to tell me that makes sense. I do believe that everything happens for a reason, but that is just SO not fair.

Anyway, by the time I made it home through traffic I was so angry that I lost it. The washing machine was beeping to signal the end of the load and I kicked the door to shut it up, breaking off the plastic lining. Then I stormed into the kitchen to put away the groceries and bent a metal spoon in half and back again to its normal shape (damn!?). I started putting things into the fridge and there was a bottle of ketchup in the way so I grabbed and lifted it, with the intent of sending it flying into they living room, but I decided against it, because tomato stains are a bitch. I thought that that was the end of my rage but when I got upstairs I somehow sat in the hallway and then kicked the wall so hard that a painting fell down. Jesus, Julia... what the fuck? My mom and sister ran out of their rooms to see what on earth was going on, only to find me crumpled on the carpet, sobbing. Whoa. I've never experienced myself like that before. It felt like it came out of a movie... that uncontrollable freak woman...

That evening, after the amazing endorphins hidden in my tears made me feel a bit better, we cooked a dinner in honor of Frank, some of his favorite recipes out of his cookbook. Mashed sweet potatoes, honey-orange glazed salmon with cilantro, steamed greens and his famous, "Freedom Fries." It was a delicious, and heartwarming dinner. I miss Frank already, and his death terrifies me because I want thing so similar to what he was doing. I know he was up against a lot, and I know I would be too, but I guess that I'd rather die doing what I believe in than sitting on a pile of money after years of working in an office cubicle. Damnit.. how do I go on from here? I'll still try to follow in his footsteps, but with a determination to keep the stress-levels low.