This morning I woke up to news I didn't want to hear and was, quite frankly, shocked to find out. Doug Skelton, my beloved boss and friend while at Frontier Airlines, passed away on June 15. He had Alzheimer's and was only 72.
I hadn’t seen Doug in a very long time, but he was one of those people that leaves an indelible mark in a positive way. So many of the things I think about and how I view the World originated with Doug.
What's uncanny is that just yesterday my husband, Ric, and I were talking about being a politician and having all our dirty laundry exposed. We wondered why anyone would ever choose that life. Without quoting my source, I said that none of us would want our life story to be on the big screen for the whole world to see. Especially me.
This is something that Doug said to me years ago. I don't remember what the context was, but it stuck, like so many other things he said. More than likely, I was sharing with him my enormous amount of regret about something in my life and he shared this nugget to mitigate my shame. I think I remember saying something like, “Yeah, right, Doug, your life is perfect, and nothing that you have done would cause you any shame.” Of course, he scoffed at that, and our conversation continued.
But his words comforted me to my core. I felt like if even he wouldn’t want his life re-played on a giant screen, perhaps there was hope for me.
More than anything, it was not what Doug said, but his constant presence and steadiness as the Director of Customer Relations at Frontier Airlines. We all loved him. He was gentle, kind, used his words well and was very approachable.
Shortly after I retired from the best employer I ever had, Doug retired as well and, a few months ago, I found pictures of the event on Facebook. I thought about him so much that day – I wish I had acted on that prompting because I believe it was from God. He was trying to tell me to reach out, knowing Doug’s time was short. I ignored the prompting.
I worked for Frontier for over six years and both my happiest and most challenging work experiences were the three years I spent in Customer Relations. We had a great team, with many great bosses, and I loved them all. It was a fantastic job, but the most difficult, too. Dealing with angry passengers, day in and day out, took its toll.
I left Customer Relations to go to the training department. Although I loved the training piece of the job, I was not accepted there. My introvert personality was not understood. Suffice it to say, my training department days became numbered, and I was given two weeks’ notice. At the time, I was a few months away from being able to retire with full flight benefits, something I had been eagerly anticipating and working toward.
I was desperate so I went to talk to Doug.
We went on a walk, and I filled him in regarding my not-so-ideal experience on the training team. He listened, then said, "When the train goes off the track, it’s nearly impossible for it to get back on it." It was obvious from what I told him that the training team track had most definitely derailed, with no hope of improving.
He was so wise and so able to articulate a situation in just a few words, doing so in a way as to avoid heaping shame on a head that was already drowning in it.
He did all he could to help, hiring me back in the Customer Relations Department so I could do my time, then retire. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life because I knew that everyone realized that I had not been a “success” while on the training team, even though my lack of training ability was not the reason why. But Doug allowed me to hold my head high as I possibly could, never saying a word about how I managed to burn my bridges in both departments.
It wasn’t a mercenary mission on his part. I remember him looking me in the eye and saying, "Quite frankly, we need you."
He redeemed a bad situation, in more than one way. And even had a small party for me, a few months later, when I retired, tearily leaving to go work for Oracle. I was a jumbled-up mess that day, but Doug understood and never told me to stop crying. He got people.
Doug endured a lot with me, but he never said, "I've never managed anyone like you." Instead, he simply managed me – and a variety of other personalities – as all great managers do.
Frontier was in its glory days when Doug was at the helm and, as such, was one of the main sponsors of my beloved Colorado Rockies. From time to time, Customer Relations and the EarlyReturns Departments were able to occupy the suite boxes at the ballpark, and it was never enough for me. I always wanted more. I was relentless in my pursuit of free Opening Day tickets and throwing out the first pitch at a Rockies game, after my co-worker, Scott, was selected. I never stopped asking Doug when it would be my turn.
When I say relentless, I mean relentless. I begged and pleaded and pleaded and begged. He encouraged me to never stop asking, that maybe one day it would happen.
One day never did.
Though Doug could be serious when times required it, he was ever the prankster and loved to pull my leg because it was so easy to get me riled up. I love baseball. He knew it. And he would use the Colorado Rockies as a ploy more times than not in his merciless teasing of me.
And he also used Jack, my favorite Frontier tail animal, telling me that Jack had been their family pet and had died while in their care. I fell for it, hook line and sinker, and was in tears when Doug fessed up. Never mind that Jack was a snowshoe hare and would not have been anyone’s pet! Logic went out the door when it came to my precious Jack.
Seeking to get even with him, on April Fool's Day I pranked him back. After conspiring with my co-workers, who waited just outside his office door, I went in and told him I had some bad news: I was leaving Frontier and going to work for Southwest Airlines, our nemesis. Fighting words. I still vividly remember the look on his face. He told me we needed to "talk about this," but I couldn't stand it one second more, bursting out in laughter, joined by three or four co-workers who were standing right outside his office door! He laughed, knowing I had gotten him just as good, if not better, than he had gotten me.
I could go on and on about Doug. About his love of Chick-fil-A and how he taught all of us that saying, “My pleasure” was much more significant than saying a mere “You're welcome.” I have been saying it ever since. Or him being concerned about a co-worker and me during a bad snowstorm and going out to the parking lot to clean off blowing, icy snow from our cars.
Tears are flowing off and on today because his loss is huge. He loved Jesus more than anything and this was evident in all he did. More than physical loss, my tears are a result of just how good he was and how I desire to be even a fraction of that for the people in my life. To show up, to listen, and to say as few words as possible while still honoring them above all else. He exemplified this, again, with grace, mercy and humor.
Often when people die, we tend to sugar-coat how truly inspiring and amazing they were. We say how great they were when they really weren’t. There is no sugar-coating with Douglas Skelton. He was the real deal. No, really, he was.
Today I honor him with a hearty “My pleasure” and a trip to Chick-fil-A. Without a doubt, I will one day see him again. Until then, I will try to make him proud in the way I live my life, as I shepherd words the way he did.