Warm Hands, Warm Heart

Jack

Things move so quickly these days I can barely keep up with the changes that insist on happening. Yet on this day, February 19, my mind returns to one man in particular—someone with warm hands and a warm heart.

Jack Strang, one of my favorite people ever to walk this earth, was born on this day in Minnesota. He arrived with the prettiest blue eyes I had ever seen, a smile that could undo you, and a ponytail he wore when we first met in San Francisco at Bank of America. We worked in the same division of the Residential Lending Program, though under different managers.

At first, I had no interest in Jack—none whatsoever. I was in a relationship (as if that mattered), one already on the verge of collapse. And collapse it did, not long after my affair with someone else came to light, right after the San Francisco–Oakland World Series and the earthquake that shook more than just the city. My relationship was already rubble; the quake simply revealed it.

Jack, though—Jack was something else. Along with those warm hands and that generous heart, he had a beguiling smile that could disarm anyone. And when he’d undo his ponytail and shake out those curls, letting them fall to his shoulders while grinning like a mischievous boy—well, I didn’t stand a chance.

Every morning he made me dark French roast coffee with a pinch of cinnamon and brought it to my desk. I grew so accustomed to it that I expected it Monday through Friday, and I was moody if he was in a meeting and forgot his “duty.” How could I not adore him eventually?

Those were the days before everything changed and we all scattered to different corners of our lives. We had so much fun at 201 Mission Street, even with the Charles‑Jack office/after‑hours scandal that somehow left no one scarred.

So happy birthday, Jack.
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I will never forget your warm hands and your warm heart.