Gary Driscoll

GARY DRISCOLL

August 26, 1943 to September 29. 2023

Analyze! Improvise! Adapt! And OVERCOME! Words to live by? Yes. These were also the words Gary Driscoll would shout, nay PROCLAIM while waking up his daughters for school. Lights on, curtains open, theres no time for a gentle wake-up call; we have places to be and the world to take on.

And thats who he was. Loud, dependable, sure, and strong. All the attributes a community would want of a Law Enforcement Officer, and daughters would want of a Dad.

Gary started his career in 1969 for the Los Angeles Sheriffs Office and transferred to Larkspur Police

Department in 1972. The following era was one of golden badges, duty motorcycles, and permed hair

(according to Gary, this had nothing to do with early-70s fashion; it was so that it wouldn't get messed up under the helmet, you understand). After some time working in the San Anselmo region of the Bay Area, in 1981 he was placed on a Marin County Drug Task Force for several years. As told by Gary over many family dinners, this time in his career rivaled that of an Academy Award-winning Martin Scorsese film. The man could paint a picture with words, and those of us who knew him knew that those pictures were *mostly, *sometimes, true. However, the truth of that time in his career was that his role on that task force ultimately led to the largest drug seizure in the Bay Area at the time. While the details might have been colorful, the truth behind his time in law enforcement, the accolades, and the promotions were often held quietly and close to his chest. He somehow blended the loudest most entertaining storytelling with humble and often quiet reflection.

In 1989 Gary moved with his wife, Karen, and their two small girls to Nevada City, California. From there he built himself a space within this little community as a gregarious, dependable hardass. If you were a deputy on his team, you followed his orders and you did it neatly. If you were a daughter in his household, you completed your homework, and you did it neatly. You get the point: Gary got things done, and people noticed. Whether he was packing the truck for a fishing trip with his best buddy and fellow officer Dan Burley, or taking his family up Willow Valley Road to pick out that years Christmas tree, plans were made with precision and forethought.

Outside of work, Gary was a Father, Husband, hot-rodder, noted clean freak, collector of knickknacks, and curator of arguably the most organized shop on the planet. He had every issue of Hot Rod magazine dating back to 1961, labeled, and stored by issue date. Need a wrench? Which type? Here they are, organized by size, brand, color, and use. An exploration of the shop might lead one to a custom-built drawer, which, upon opening, would display multiple circular and jig saws, all in their custom-built slots, power chords neatly coiled up next to them. Any roll of tape that Gary had access to would be neatly folded on the edge, ready for the next use. The beautiful, albeit sometimes frustrating thing about Gary, was that in a world of chaos and disorder, Gary made his own. But god help you if you used the tape, and didn't fold it over for the next person.

He did a lot in his 80 years on this earth. And in his absence his family is left thinking, categorizing,

identifying, and organizing. And there is no more fitting tribute for the man who loved order than that. But how does one summarize a list of accomplishments so lengthy and far-reaching? To some, the top of the list is the Gold Star he was awarded for his acts of bravery during the 2001 shooting at the HEW building in Nevada City. For us closer to home, maybe it was the fact that he hand-made the gold star that has adorned our family Christmas tree for the past 30 years.

Because the truth of loss is this: Humans are complicated creatures. He taught us to be truthful. And

he'd want us to be truthful now. Gary was a complicated man. Human. Person. He was loud and sometimes aggressive. He loved order and control; he abhorred chaos. He liked things neat and in their place. But he was also funny. A storyteller of the highest caliber. He broke generational curses and always made sure his family would want for nothing. He was an artist and a tradesman. He was Gar-bear, and Mr. Driscoll, and Officer and Papa

In the end, it was cancer. The kind that comes in fast and fierce. The kind that takes a body before their

family can even learn to properly pronounce the name of it. What a blow, after all the fighting with blood sugar numbers, and heart procedures. He finally, for the first time in his life, met a fight he couldn't win. Cancer came in and took what it takes. He is survived by his wife of 41 years, Karen, his two daughters Meghan Boblak and Kaitlin Jenkins, their husbands Kenny Boblak and Ken Jenkins, and his grandchildren, Charlie, Wyatt, and Emerson.

He is missed. He is loved. 10-7 OD, Papa