This column was originally published May 18, 2008. Look for an update at the end.
The librarian lunching at Doozie's last week wants someone to tell Sam Brown's story.
So does the man who sticks Sam's arm with a needle twice a week to take his plasma.
So does the woman who witnessed Sam's struggle.
And Sam himself?
He's tickled to tell you what he's about to do today — what he might have done already.
Which is walk across the Doane College stage wearing his cap and gown, a 58-year-old man with a 3.91 GPA and a past that would make your mama faint.
To hear Sam tell it — and Samuel Patrick Brown will tell it — there are a few things a man must do to overcome that past.
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Quit whining.
"You're gonna laugh at this one — I got a lot of mileage out of my whining, but after a while it didn't work anymore."
Get sober.
"Quitting drinking was the best decision I ever made."
Be honest about where he's been (in prison) and what he's suffered (mental illness).
And keep his eye on the prize.
"I'm trying to keep my emotions together," he says Friday, a bald man with a belly his blue polo can't hide waiting for the 6:50 a.m. bus near his 25th Street apartment.
"If I think about it, I'll cry."
Sam is heading to the north Wal-Mart, like he does most Fridays, meeting friends for coffee.
He carries a gray book bag over his shoulder, the one he carried on another bus morning after morning to Doane's Lincoln campus, on his way to a bachelor's degree in human relations.
A man in a pickup turns on Q Street with a wave and a honk.
That man worked at the jail, Sam says. "He was a, what do you call it? A bailiff."
That's how Sam knows him. But ending up drunk and in jail? That's all in the past.
Sam's been sober four years now.
It's been almost five years since he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Radiation took care of it.
Three years since he started college, and graduate school is next.
"I tell you, Cindy, life is good."
* * *
The man who was abandoned as a baby and grew up a state ward spent a lot of years not liking Sam. Trying to run from Sam's problems.
"The geographical escape, you know that never worked. Wherever you go you take your stuff."
Some of the worst stuff happened in Norfolk. Sam was 28. He'd had a marriage that didn't work, a child who would grow up not knowing his father, the way he never knew his.
Sam had been drinking for years already. Wine, vodka, whatever was cheap.
That night in 1977, he was drunk in the back seat of a car with two buddies and a guy from the bar they'd just left. He thought they were just going to rob the man, he says.
But the friend in the front killed him. He got life in prison.
Sam was in prison for 10 years, convicted of second-degree murder, and another eight more, off and on, for violating his parole.
"I wasn't supposed to enter bars or taverns, but I'd get caught intentionally and go back."
He tried to better himself in prison. He worked in the warden's office, he says. He started taking classes, enough to earn a two-year degree from Southeast Community College.
But back on the streets, he couldn't quit drinking.
"I was a happy drunk, the town clown, always trying to get love, but inside I didn't love myself."
Cheri Jackson witnessed Sam's struggle with addiction and depression in the late '90s, when she worked at CenterPointe.
"Sam was one of my favorites. He always kept trying, he always reached out, he was good to the other clients," she says.
She saw him around once in a while after he finished treatment in 1999. Then that stopped.
She was used to seeing the names of old clients in the obituaries. She worried Sam was gone, too.
"I knew he'd had cancer and struggled with relapse. I knew he'd been homeless. I looked for him everywhere I went."
About the time Cheri couldn't find Sam, Marc Mecham — the young man who sticks Sam's arm with a needle — started seeing him twice a week.
"Sam was one of the first donors I started talking to. He's one of those people you just get along with."
Sam had given up drinking for good by the time Marc became a lab tech at the plasma center downtown.
"He was always talking about his sobriety. He'd say 'Life is so much better now.'
"And then he started saying he wanted to go back to school. And he just hit the ground running."
The cancer — that's what started this. Before, Sam was lost, drunk and wandering.
"I looked in the mirror one day and said, 'Sam, the problem is you.'"
He quit whining, started taking his bipolar medication, got a sponsor to help him stay away from booze.
And he started thinking about education. He made some calls, got himself enrolled.
He took one class a quarter at first, working his way up to two.
"I knew if I got too much on my plate, I'd fall on my face."
After that, the downtown library was one of the places Sam haunted.
"He was all over," said Bob Boyce, the librarian lunching at Doozie's last week. "Down in periodicals, on the second floor, doing research."
Bob and the other reference librarians got to know Sam.
"He shared with us. We knew he'd had some serious personal problems, but he always exhibited a very positive attitude.
"We were all very impressed."
Bob has the graduation card they all signed to tell Sam so.
* * *
Sam nurses a cup of coffee at the McDonald's inside Wal-Mart.
He was here yesterday, having his picture taken in his cap and gown. He ran into the ombudsman from his prison days, and the guy treated him to lunch.
It's been like that all week.
"I have been ripping and running! I've never had so many good things happen to me."
He and his son are talking again after all these years. He's heading up to Omaha to see his mama soon, show her his Pinnacle award, the highest honor for nontraditional students.
Marc and a bunch from the plasma center are driving to Crete today. Cheri will be there, too. His teachers — Brenda Kastens, Jay Kramer. His adviser, Kim Smith. A man from the parole board.
His old warden is giving the commencement address.
Now here come his friends, carrying a giant cookie with frosted words that spell out: "Congratulations, Sam!"
Bonnie and Judy set the cookie on the table. They tell him how proud they are.
"You're growing up," teases Bonnie.
He opens the card, with two bills inside, and best wishes.
It's been an emotional week, let him tell you, so what happens next is no surprise.
Sam bows his bald head. His shoulders shake.
The college graduate starts to cry.
He remembers that first day of class. Wondering if the other students were going to make fun of him. Call him Pops.
Now the prize is his. But Sam is ready for more.
He's already sad because graduate school won't start until January.
"I don't know how I'm going to wait."
Postscript: Sam never made it to graduate school; he took a job at Bluestem Health Center instead. He retired in 2017. During the pandemic, he fell into a deep depression. He went to counseling, reached out to friends and family for support. His failing health — diabetes and high blood pressure — motivated him to lose 65 pounds.
You know what he didn't do? Start drinking again. "Still diligently working my sobriety program," he says. "Seventeen years clean and sober, one day at a time."
Cindy Lange-Kubick counts down her final summer at the Journal Star with one column from each of her 25 years on the Lincoln Life beat with a …
Reach the writer at 402-473-7218 or clangekubick@journalstar.com.
On Twitter @TheRealCLK