I was in the Yup cup with a local Pol on Monday. Another Pol came in and they shook hands--they tend to do that.

Then Syd came over and whispered to me. She was shaking.

Deacon Bob had been killed on his new motorcycle.

The words “Deacon” and “Motorcycle” don’t ordinarily appear in the same sentence. But Bob Little was no ordinary guy.

We met when he was “Mr.” Little—friend of Justin Meyer—and new marketing director at Silver Oak.

We got to know each other because we had a few things (very few) in common. One: We’d both married well above our stations. Two: We each had two daughters. My eldest, Casey, and his youngest , Becky were athletes together. We met as so many parents in St. Helena do--on Carpy field.

It was the 80’s. Finally, St. Helena was going to allow girls to play Little League Baseball. It was “softball”, actually, but it was under the auspice of Little League, and girls 9 to 12 could play.

The Goobs became head coach of the Twins—I was her assistant. Becky was a rock star for the Cardinals. Each year, the Cardinals and Twins would battle it out for the League Championship. Each year Becky and Casey would compete. Bob, Patty, The Goobs and I would see each other on the Diamonds around town. It was small town life at its best.

Soon, on Sunday’s, Bob would appear behind the podium at the Catholic Church. He talked about the commitment “they” (yes, it was a family thing) were making towards his “Deacon-ship”—-or whatever it’s called.

Though a Mackerel Snapper myself, I’ve never understood exactly how Deacons work. They say mass—give communion—minister to the sick—perform weddings and funerals—but they are not Priests. And they can remain married.

Like all things Catholic, it’s a mystery to me. Yet I realized we were all getting something out of it—especially Father Brenkle. Soon, Deacon Bob was “takin’ care of bidness.”

Careful not to step on anyone’s toes, Bob began running the joint—-freeing up Father Brenkle for the Ministries he enjoyed the most. As head bottle and pot washer, Deacon Bob was doing all the dirty work which Father Brenkle had earned the right to pass on to someone else. There was great mutual respect. They were a winning team.

Of course, Deacon Bob was used to serving. He’d been a deputy sheriff for 12 years. An Air Force Vet, he’d served in Vietnam, Panama and Desert Storm.

In typical Little fashion, he gave up his lucrative profession at Silver Oak to devote full time to the Church at what must have been one tenth the pay. Patty and the girls, Julie and Becky supported him all the way.

He couldn’t help himself. He had to help others. He learned Spanish so he could perform quinceaneras and Baptisms. An affordable housing advocate, he also ministered to the poor. He called on the elderly and comforted the afflicted. He never complained—at least to us.

Deacon Bob was a lunch Bucket minister. Though he checked his hard hat at the door, one always felt he wore a tool belt under his Dalmatic (Yeah, I had to look that up). He was a can do guy.

Our American Legion Chaplin, he traveled up and down the coast blowing taps at Veterans’ funerals.

His other legacy is literally in stone and mortar in the retrofit and remodel of our Catholic Church. Not only did he bring it in ahead of schedule and under budget, his painstaking attention to detail has made it the most beautiful historical structure in the Valley. He discovered the Bell that now hangs in the Tower.

Deacon Bob’s sermons were challenging and original. He had found his own voice and we were the richer for it. He dared us to be great—-to take risks—-to live the Gospel as it was meant to be lived—-not to just to theorize or pay lip service.

St. Helena is currently in shock. All lives are valuable, but in small towns, especially, the life of each and every person carries greater weight than it does in large cities. The shock waves of Bob’s death will reverberate throughout the Valley for years.


John Donne got it right:

No man is an island… /Each man's death diminishes me,/ For I am involved in mankind. /Therefore, send not to know/ For whom the bell tolls,/ It tolls for thee.

Especially, in our new bell tower. He will be missed.