I met Jeff in high school, and we quickly became inseparable. During our senior year, we joined the Marine Reserves together under the delayed entry program and went on to fulfill our six-year service side by side. We attended college together, became roommates, and took memorable road trips that still make me smile. Jeff would have been sixty-two today. Sadly, he passed away early last year. Though we hadn’t seen each other in years, the memories we made together remain vivid and deeply meaningful.

Doug, Jeff, and I were headed to St. Louis for our monthly Reserve Duty when we somehow took a wrong exit off the interstate. Not long after, we spotted a few attractive young women walking along the roadside. In what we thought was a friendly gesture, we waved. They didn’t share our enthusiasm and responded by flipping us the bird. Naturally, we returned the favor—right as a police cruiser rolled by. The officer pulled us over and gave us a stern lecture about our manners. Thankfully, he let us off with just the warning. We were especially relieved he didn’t search the car—our military gear might have raised a few eyebrows.

In the spring of 1983—give or take—Jeff and I took a road trip in his Triumph Spitfire to visit my brother Roger in Colorado Springs. Roger took us hiking up Pikes Peak. At the time, the Manitou Springs Incline Railway was still in operation, so we rode it to the top of the incline and started hiking from there. Though it was early June, we quickly hit colder weather and even ran into some snow. We trekked up to Barr Camp, where there was a cozy cabin where we could warm our hands. A friendly ranger offered us hot chocolate and, on the table, were some cheese and crackers. Jeff helped himself—apparently a bit too enthusiastically. The ranger chuckled and said, “Hey, that’s my lunch! We don’t mind sharing, but let’s not get carried away.” Embarrassed, we finished our cocoa and began the hike back down.
On that same trip, Jeff’s Triumph broke down near Topeka, Kansas. I offered to loan him the money to get it fixed. Back then, debit cards weren’t a thing, and all I had was a personal check, which the shop wouldn’t take. So, we improvised. We visited a local bank, pretended I was moving to Topeka, and opened a checking account. After that, the repair shop was happy to accept a check from a local bank.
Jeff and I were both fans of The Falcon and the Snowman (1985), especially a scene where Sean Penn’s character has a covert meeting with a Soviet agent in Mexico City. The spy says, “Do you know the restaurant in San Francisco?” and the reply is, “No, but I know the restaurant in Los Angeles.” It became our personal code phrase. We’d call each other and often say it —our own little Cold War joke.
While we were roommates in Centralia, Illinois, attending Kaskaskia College, we often spent all day on campus—studying, working in the computer lab, and getting home late. As a result, we rarely checked our mail until late in the evening.. That led to a running joke between us: “I wonder if the midnight mailman left us anything.”
In memory of Jeff Donoho – July 18, 1963 – April 11, 2024.





