There was no text on Christmas. Nothing on New Year’s Day. Or on my birthday. No back and forth the night of the Super Bowl. Or when the Boston Celtics clinched their 18th title. And yet mine and Corly Maciel’s text thread still sits in my messages app.
I knew nothing would come through on any of those days because Corly died on Dec. 17, 2023.
He left this world so unexpectedly that I still, at times, can’t believe it’s real. The urge to send him a text or to give him a call lingers almost a year later. He was such a constant in my life that a post-Corly world is a tough one to navigate.
I had known Corly (aka “Big C” or “The Commish”) since birth as he and my dad, Pat Mercier, had been best friends since high school. Over the years he was there for so many life moments — birthdays, sporting events, graduations, weddings — that me, my parents and brother considered him a family member rather than just a family friend.
One of our favorite things to do together was go out to breakfast. Our spots consisted of the Plane View, Linda Jean’s and Edgartown Diner. His order — eggs Benedict (poached hard) with a short stack of pancakes on the side (extra butter) and a Diet Coke — never changed no matter where we went. For a while he would include a grilled corn muffin with butter, but in recent years he claimed to “be on a diet” which, considering his actual order, was comical. He loved breakfast so much, he even held the title of “Most Pancakes Eaten” at the old IHop by the Bourne Bridge.
We loved talking about sports. Football was our favorite topic. He was a die-hard Miami Dolphins fan. The leg brace he wore even featured the team’s logo. And most days he would have on the hat I bought him for his birthday that displayed their old-school logo (he hated their new logo).
He was known, on numerous occasions, to remind people of the Dolphins back-to-back Super Bowl wins in 1972 and 1973. We participated in a weekly football pool during the season, constantly checking in with each other over the course of the Sunday games to see how our sheets were doing. I kept trying to convince him to join a fantasy football league, but to no avail.
My dad and Corly would hang out multiple times a week — either sharing a meal together or going for a walk. Most Sundays they would go for a drive, which they referred to as Corly’s “puppy ride,” around the West Chop loop, downtown Edgartown or up to Aquinnah.
A handful of things were certain when those two were together: constant laughter, stories of the old days and jokes at the other’s expense, especially about the towns they grew up in — Corly was a Tisbury Tiger, my dad is an Edgartown Eagle. And, of course, they would always work in a quote or two from their favorite movies: A Few Good Men, The Shawshank Redemption and even the romcom Silver Linings Playbook.
As many Islanders know, Corly had a stroke almost 12 years ago that left the right side of his body partially paralyzed. Through hard work and perseverance he was able to walk again with a cane. My dad, with the help of a few others, were determined to make Corly’s house in Vineyard Haven accessible for him to live there again. Thanks to all their hard work, for the past seven years he had his independence back in the house he had grown up in.
Corly was a plumber by trade, having followed in his father’s footsteps. Even after his stroke, he would still help out on certain plumbing issues if he could. I still remember the time he got stuck on my bathroom floor trying to fix my sink. He needed me to pull him up, but we were both laughing so hard at the situation it took a while.
He was also our go-to for turning the outdoor shower on and off. My husband could easily do it but I always preferred Corly.
The last time I saw Corly in person was when he turned it off last fall. He came in with my dad, a plastic bag of tools in his hand. His signature, “Hey, baby” greeting heard from my home office upstairs. It was the middle of the work day and I was busy. Too busy to come down and chat, even for a few minutes.
As they left, his voice drifted up the stairs: “See ya, Pickle.” It was the nickname I’d had since childhood, and he was one of the only people who still called me it. I stuck my head around the corner of the stairs to thank him and say a quick goodbye. Two months later, he was gone.
I can still picture Corly and my dad walking to the door that day. They were joking around with each other, as per usual. Their laughter ringing through my house. It was a scene that encapsulated what true friendship and love was. It’s a scene I’ll never forget.
Nicole Fullin is the managing editor of Martha’s Vineyard Magazine.
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