Riverside's Finest

WORDS: KEN CRAWFORD PHOTO: ZACH CORDNER

I first met Gordon while working my “regular job” at a retail membership warehouse sometime in the mid 2000s. He’d run in for a few things several times a week and make his presence known with exuberant greetings and deep laughter. He knew every employee, and every employee knew him. Gordon was a “sunshine tornado,” and everyone always felt that when he left they’d just had a brief encounter with a good friend. Gordon was usually wearing a red cap and a safety vest. I knew he was a crossing guard, and while I’d talked with him plenty of times about televisions, computers, and digital cameras, I’d never really gotten into the details of what he did outside of my work world. In 2011, my older son entered Kindergarten at Washington Elementary School in Riverside. I lived on the north side of Lincoln, and would walk my son to-and-from school every day. Not too far into the school year, some of the parents of my son’s classmates started planning Wednesday after school trips around the corner to Washington Park on Mary Street and Victoria. This was a welcome routine, and began a long and cherished tradition. As I walked down Jane Street, I could see a gathering of kids waiting on the Victoria Bike Path waiting for their parents. The crowd was significant—at least 40 people. From the crowd, I heard a familiar laugh. I had found “Gordon’s Corner.” He acknowledged me with a “Hey, Kenny!” as he always had, and then continued on chatting with the crowd around him. I saw Gordon at work within the following few days and we talked about how I had a kid in Kindergarten at Washington, and how small the world is. I’d continue to see him at work and on Wednesdays on my way to the park. As time went on and my stops in the corner got longer, I started to realize that the people that gathered there weren’t just there out of utility. They were there to see Gordon. As my older son moved into sixth grade and my younger son started first grade, we moved south of Victoria. We no longer had to go out of our way to cross at Gordon’s Corner. We saw Gordon every school day, and we were part of a growing crowd that lingered there a little longer than was needed to have a little chat with a friend. My older son moved on to Gage, had a Covidshortened eighth grade year, and then moved on to Poly. We moved a little further down Victoria, and I remember trying to drop my younger guy in front of school on his first day back, and him walking up to the corner to talk to Gordon before school started. I started dropping him off on Victoria, so Gordon could help him at the crosswalk. I even found out that my son had started taking lollipops from home to Gordon everyday. A few weeks into the return-to-classroom learning, there was a different crossing guard at the corner. There was a rumbling among the parents that Gordon had retired. My schedule had changed at work, and I rarely saw Gordon there anymore. One weekday morning around eleven in the morning, I ran into Gordon at Stater Brothers and he was wearing sweatpants and sandals. I asked him, “Gordon, it’s 11am. Are you just waking up?” He let out a laugh from the center of his being and said “Kenny! I love retirement!” I knew Gordon was okay. I see him regularly. I run into him at Stater Brothers, and we both have season tickets for CBU Basketball. Gordon is still around, but his corner is empty. I drive by, and see his replacement—alone. I’m sure she does her job well, and the kids are just as safe with her there. I can see, in absence of a crowd, that she doesn’t make the kids feel like Gordon did. He spent eighteen years at the corner of Victoria and Jane. He helped mulitple generations of families cross the street. People that moved away knew where to find him and would visit him when they returned to Riverside. Gordon’s Corner was a point of gathering and there was a community that was attracted to the vibrant, positive energy that Gordon brought with him. I know that my boys are better off having crossed at Gordon’s Corner, and I’m glad to call him a friend.