The Great Scott Hartwich

I first met Scott Hartwich and Mary Burwell in 1993. I had messed up my first run at college, had to drop out, and needed a job. Scott hired me to work at their coffee cart, and I had no idea how at the time how much this — and they — would shape my life.

We served a lot of great coffee, saw Scott and Mary launch the coffee roasting arm of their business (which was to become Hammerhead), and even did some construction work. After Scott and Mary got the contract to build the first coffee shop in iconic Powell’s Books, a few of us volunteered to swing hammers and hang drywall. Those were great times, and the work we did helped me get my life back on track.

That wouldn’t be the last time Scott helped me, or numerous other folks in my peer group that needed a hand up during a time of directionless wandering. Some of you are probably reading this, and y’all know who you are. I eventually found my path, moved to Eugene, and Kitsap County, and Bellingham. (And Okinawa and Minnesota and North Carolina, but that’s another story).

Scott and Mary moved to Bellingham, too. I was thrilled to re-connect with them — and I was even more thrilled that Scott wanted to train jiu-jitsu with us. It would give me a chance to return several favors he’d done me over the years.

I want to tell you all about him, and about the fun we had on the mats and off, but I have to skip to the end of the story first:

Scott died unexpectedly today, the day before Christmas.

This is as stunning and tragic as it sounds. There’s never a good time to be delivering or receiving news of this nature, but it feels especially awful during this time of celebration.

Scott was a writer, and a good one. He wrote fiction and poetry and fun experiments. He was thoughtful about his writing, and took it seriously. He has a fiction piece in a recent Frigg Magazine, and I’m sure he’d love it if you’d read it. He loved books and had hilarious one-liners.

I knew we had these things in common, along with progressive politics. When he had a health scare a few months back, I took him some books when I went to visit the hospital. I had no idea we’d have jiu-jitsu in common, too.

When Scott told me he wanted to come train at the academy we’d just opened, I frankly thought he was doing that just to support me, Dave and Betsy. That was a very Scott thing to do — he was always down to help you with your project, whatever it was. When we started a pun-themed Tuesday night dinner (Stewsday!), he and Mary were among the first and most enthusiastic adopters.

I was wrong. Scott loved jiu-jitsu, and he loved it in a way a lot of us can identify with. He wanted to train all the time, even when his body advised him against it. He thought about it constantly. He asked me classic white belt questions (“Why am I not getting better faster?” “Because this stuff is hard, Scott.”).

He had a blast even when it was tough.

He did everything I asked of him, except take it easier on himself. He pulled his hamstring in gnarly fashion one time, resulting in spectacular bruising. I think he was kind of proud of it. Scott kept showing up to class and taking notes.

He really liked being part of the group, but he also wanted to excel. When I gave him his first stripe, he was stoked, but called me later to express doubt that he deserved it. I laughed and assured him — truthfully — that neither Dave nor I would ever give any soft rank.

It’s a tough world. We all need help through it sometimes. Scott helped me a lot in my life, and not just in helping me find my path. He was a supportive, caring friend, who always tried to do the right thing, even when it was tough. He loved his family. He was kind and thoughtful and creative and funny, and he’d blanch at me calling him “tough,” but he was, in all the best ways.

I’m grateful for the time we got with him. My heart breaks for Mary, for their kids, Andrew, Ezra and everybody else who loved Scott — and I assure you, that’s a long list of people.

Every day you get with the people you love is a gift. Everything to do to help others during the time you here matters. Scott did more than his share of that. He was a good man, and I’ll miss him a lot.