Sandy & Liv, These Days:
Remembering the 'real' Sandy McKnight on (what would be) his 72nd Birthday
Today – July 1, 2025 – Sandy would have been 72 years old. He missed his 71st birthday last year by about six weeks, passing away on May 22. As I celebrate and honor him today, I am thinking about how, and who, to celebrate.
Who was Sandy McKnight? He was a lot of things: songwriter, musician, writer… brother, son, cousin, friend. But I knew him in a different way than most. Today I want to remember my Sandy.
Things I do to remember Sandy:
Listen to voicemails (the love in his voice)
Look at pictures (his smiles, his warmth)
Make lists (of things I loved, things that drove me crazy, things we struggled with, his favorite foods/shows/movies, great times, sad times)
Tell his (and our) stories
When your loved one dies, you become the only keeper of your memories. This has been a sad, heartbreaking reality: no one but me remembers all those moments of our lives, all the moments that, stitched together, became the quilt that kept us warm all those years. Example: Our trips the last few summers to the CT shore, where we’d enjoy great seafood, great music (at The Kate, the Katharine Hepburn Cultural Arts Center in Old Saybrook), and great times on the water – me in a kayak, Sandy watching me from the shore. I keep getting emails from Meri and Marcus, the lovely couple who run the B&B where we stayed the last six years, asking ‘Sandy and Liv’ to ‘reserve our rooms now’ or miss out on ‘special times.’ I know we will miss out. But there is no one to tell about this email, no one who will care or understand what it means. Worse, I don’t have the heart to notify them that we won’t be returning, or why; I just keep seeing the email, having it remind me of our trips there, and wishing we could take one again… or at least - wishing I could tell Sandy, the only person who would get it.
But it’s not just the memories themselves. It’s the way we knew each other, the shorthand we shared. We’d developed a code. It is yet one more distinct loss: a coded language, developed over decades with your person – gone, in an instant, when they leave the world.
A funny example: when we’d hear a very loud, crying baby on a plane or in a restaurant, Sandy would look at me and say, “L.H.” Living Hell. Which meant: Those poor parents; I am sorry for them, but please, keep the crying monster far from me right now. L.H., I think now, when I hear a crying baby. But who can I say this to who will understand…?
Another example: Sandy had a theory that you could add the phrase ‘these days’ to the end of most any sentence and it would make sense. Like, ‘Restaurants prices are so high {these days}.’ Or, ‘People in Minnesota are so nice {these days}.’ ‘Marching bands cause accidents for bass drummers {these days} .’ I have to tell this to people and laugh about it with them, and then have us try it out in different sentences, to remember one of Sandy’s and my stories… so it doesn’t live only within me these days.
In remembering my Sandy, I’ve been perusing images of him that reveal the sweetness, the softness – not the suave persona he wanted to project. For example, the picture we used for the celebration of Sandy’s life and his blessing card: he liked that picture because it was his pose, his music, ‘cool guy’ persona. But he was doing a bit. People will think I’m pondering something serious, he’d muse… like – I’m really deep. And: he was right. Everyone loves this picture of him. But that wasn’t really Sandy. I mean, it was an aspect of him — but not him.
This was Sandy: a disarming smile when he was enjoying something sweet and simple: a good Italian meal in old-time Brooklyn… a Mets game…
…time with Alex….
…time with his/our beloved cats, Zorro and Carmella…
Who was Sandy McKnight? Yes, he was all creation, all the time. But he was, at heart, all heart: sweetness, softness – my soft place to land when I was broken-hearted, my biggest cheerleader, my guy, my person.
This is the Sandy I miss, one year and a few weeks after he has left this world. I am forever grateful for his songs and books and comedy and shows and films, things we can all return to again and again to hear Sandy’s voice and share his stories. But today, I am missing his big hug, his smile, his warm look, his soft voice leaving me a message on his way home.
May you be blessed by the angels in your new home, Sandy. We miss you in the home you left behind. We love you. I remain here, seeking to connect with you and keep you and your spirit alive. How am I doing?
That's a powerful and poignant observation, Liv...there's much about Sandy that you alone can know. You've brought to the fore a truth that always applies when a loved one leaves this mortal coil. But let's face it...some people are more unique, more special, than others...and in Sandy's case they broke the mold. But there is another side to this coin: No one ever had a better "keeper of the legacy" than you. In the very process of describing the limitations inherent in the task, you've done so much to share the Sandy you knew with all of us.
Beautiful and sad at the same time.