J.P. Slota, 33 years old, died on March 13, 2003. He had melanoma which spread to his liver.
I was with him in the hospital at the end, though not at the exact moment of his passing. But his father was there, as he had been for weeks, forgoing sleep and his own needs to be at his son's side. This devotion was so moving; I knew he was close to his father but not how devoted the father was to the son until I met him.
JP was a dear friend I camped with every summer, and also saw throughout the year, though he lived in New Jersey and I was in Boston.
I post this here at the Mudcat because he loved music and we shared many musical moments together at pagan gatherings we've been attending together for ten years.
He was very, very supportive of my musical endeavors. Once I needed some copies of a demo CD and he made them and posted them overnight to me, just because I happened to mention needing them and was not sure what sort of equipment I needed to make them. He was a computer genius and always ready to lend a hand. (My Mac is loaded with software he installed for me).
He was the kind of person who is truly one in a hundred million. Generous to a fault, compassionate, full of integrity, always thinking of others, always there to help. And a decadent fun-loving soul besides.
When I'd be singing with my band at the summer festivals, he'd be there the night of the gig, having helped us make flyers on his computer (in the middle of the woods, J.P. was always equipped with any tool for the job, from axes to awls to laptop computers!), brought us cold beers to drink during and after the show, and dressed to the nines, having shed his t-shirt and tool vest from the day to wear an evening ensemble of kilt, leather armor, chainmail vest, or whatever other concoction he felt like that night. He always acted like coming to watch me perform was a special occasion.
He was like a brother, soulmate and husband to me at times, though our relationship was always a platonic one (though he delighted in calling me his "platonic concubine" as I did all the housekeeping while camping!)
He touched thousands of people around the world. His family business was a very successful one allowing him to travel widely and also to be a generous host to his many friends.
One friend tells me that J.P.'s death is a gift. In the midst of my heartbreak, I find it difficult to comprehend this. But I know my dear friend believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, and now that he is gone, I am the one who has to believe. And there really is no greater gift for one friend to give another.

peg