Remembering a finer one of our own

When I walked into the upstairs office at the Martha’s Vineyard Times for the very first time years ago, Geoff Currier, who was a features editor, was sitting at his desk, long legs stretched out in front of him. We were introduced, and I realized he was the same Geoff Currier who had written some great magazine stories I had proofread for another publication. I’m pretty sure I gasped dramatically when I met him, and said something like, “Oh! You’re Geoff Currier!” I was in awe already.

From that point on, we worked together so well that it was hard to call it “work.” Having such an amazing writer to hash through my own stories with was invaluable for me. He would stop what he was doing to help me through a rough spot in my own story — or one I was editing — and Geoff would share his work with me as well. Of course, I rarely had an edit to suggest, because his writing was so spot-on. 

Besides reading each other’s work, we mapped out story ideas to carry the features sections through every week. He always had great ideas, and a very lengthy list of contacts that I shamelessly borrowed whenever I needed to. 

After Jimmy Buffet died, Geoff wrote a great piece about the musician’s Vineyard connections. I think one of his favorite pieces, though, was the one he wrote about his family giving him a ticket to see the Winter Classic between the Boston Bruins and the Pittsburgh Penguins, held at Fenway Park. He went to the game with his son, Spike, and a couple of his friends. In fact, it wasn’t a stretch to run into Geoff hanging out with Spike’s friends. 

I loved Geoff’s music series on The Vineyard Beat, and his headlines were impeccable: “Cat found after 23-day walkabout” or “A man and his submarine” or “What does the Vineyard smell like?” for instance.

For part of our time together, we also worked with Brittany Bowker, a young, very smart writer and editor. I could never count how many times we broke out in laughter together, usually over something Geoff said. He’d share his lunch with us sometimes, because no one could resist his wife Joyce’s homemade cookies. After a while, we decided we would set up a tea station in our office, and brought in different types to try out. Geoff, of course, brought a fancy teacup in for the occasion. It occurred to him then to write “The Finer Things Club” on a yellow sticky note, and paste it on the door leading into our office. 

And Geoff had the worst luck with tick bites. More than once he came over to me, hiked up his shirt and said, “Is that a tick?” and it usually was. He’d trot off to get it removed and pick up a prescription, shaking his head and muttering expletives about ticks under his breath.

He loved to tell stories about his family and what it was like visiting the “old” Vineyard when he was a kid. He remembered every shuttered restaurant, who owned it, and who the chef was. He loved to talk about his kids and grandkids. And I’ve never met anyone who loved going to the dump as much as Geoff did. The stories he shared about life with Joyce were some of his best. I don’t know if the two of them ever stopped laughing.

I’ll remember many things about Geoff, but most of all I’ll keep looking back in gratitude for his friendship, his kindness, and his humor. He made me a better writer, because I so very much wanted to write like him. 

For just a second, I thought about how I’d love to send this to Geoff so he could give it a good read for me. I will miss him dearly.