When I learned of the passing of the Honorable Gregory J. Hobbs, Jr., my dear friend and mentor, I expected that I would have coherent thoughts about who he was.  Instead, what happened was I was overwhelmed with these snippets of him, these vignettes, fragments of memories, like pieces of a puzzle. 

Take for example, my interview for my clerkship.  I already knew The Good Judge due to my role as Editor-In-Chief of DU’s Water Law Review and we were finalizing the editing of an article of his.  He mentioned to me that the process was not unlike his process of working on opinions with his clerks and did I want to apply to clerk for him.  He interviewed me at Pint Pub’s over a burger and a beer and offered me my clerkship on the porch as we were walking out. 

As his clerk, I remember that he was once—and only once--so close to being late for oral argument that Justice Bender, robes flying, dashed into chambers, breathlessly inquiring about the judge’s whereabouts and we assured him the judge was on his way, having, honestly, no idea where he was.  By the time we heard the “ding” of the elevator and the unmistakable chang-chang-chang of change in his pocket as he barreled down the hall, my co-clerks and I had assembled all his briefs and notes for that morning into an accordion file folder and had his robe out so that he could jam his arms in the robe while swooping the files up under his arm, heading to the back way to the bench, without a word said among any of us--except, as he took off, a look over his shoulder combined with perfectly mouthed “thank you,” and that trademarked rascally look on his face.

We were his pit crew.  It was an unexpected and ridiculous amount of fun.

There was the personal too, like what a joy he was when he officiated my husband’s and my wedding.  And how much all my friends loved hanging out with The Good Judge and Bobbie over the course of that weekend, remarking on how cool the two of them were and how stunned they were that someone so utterly down to earth was a Colorado Supreme Court Justice, with the awe that the station elicited but doubled because, well, he was Greg.

Right when the Colorado Supreme Court began its move into the new Justice Center, he invited me to his new chambers and for a tour.  The facilities were still under construction—at the punch list stage where there were only the smaller things left to do and only a handful of construction workers left to do it.  He knew several of them by name and stopped to introduce me.  One of them waved his friends over and said, “this is who I was telling you about. You know, he’s one of the people who sits up there,” and he pointed to the bench, with a big dose of reverence and not a little disbelief that one of those people who should be so inaccessible was just so accessible.   

Greg was on the bench for nineteen years.  Every year, he and Bobbie would invite his great and growing clerks group, which by his retirement was a group nearly sixty strong, to their mountain cabin for the annual Clerks Picnic.  He would kick off the email invitation with “Please join Bobbie and me and each other for our annual cabin picnic.”  That “each other” bit was so him—ensuring that we knew that we were a community, that we clerks were hosting too, and he and Bobbie had simply provided the venue.

We would play horseshoes while we were there and he’d be doing the host thing, cooking with Bobbie and hanging out with clerks and clerk wives and husbands and babies and kiddos—the judge, everywhere at once, that magical way that only he could be.  And then he’d come down the hill to the horseshoe pit all shucks and can I play and proceed to wipe out whoever was reigning champ at the time and then mop the floor with the rest of us, throwing ringer after ringer.  And then off he’d go, so unassuming, and turn some more burgers on the grill.  There was a home field advantage, for sure, but he was also just good, eye on the prize, with that focus of his that made him so capable of achieving great things, all the while making it look like it weren’t no thang. 

The tiniest snapshot but the one that really tore me up was that rascally smile he’d have when he’d come enthusiastically up to me at a chance meeting at, say a conference, and say to me with that unmistakable cadence of his: “Hey Amy.”  You know that smile of his—the one that said in no uncertain terms that he had just solemnly sworn that he was up to no good.

There were of course thoughts of redwinged blackbirds (his favorite, the harbingers of spring!), and his lyricism, his appreciation for the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and the other little pieces that flew in and out of view. 

As I was processing these polaroids of mine, I was also devouring remembrances from others, thoughts about things that made The Good Judge The Good Judge.

Like that of Jon Asher, the Executive Director of Colorado Legal Services, who said so beautifully, “I would only add that he was warm, humble, and unassuming.  I am certain that Greg very reluctantly would acknowledge that he made a difference--and that things are better and that progress has been made--because of his efforts to advance, not just Access to Justice, but true Justice.  [B]ut [he would also note that] that there still is much to do and further improvements to be made, and that, in part, is why he made such a difference.”

I was told that Justice Boatwright said that the one thing he reminded himself every day on the bench was that he needed to love the job as much as Greg did.  It struck me as such a perfect way to sum up Greg’s relationship with the bench.  He loved that job every day, never taking a day of it for granted, down to his very last day.

And of course we clerks shared remembrances on what has become quite an email chain, replete with beautiful tributes to his iconoclasm, integrity, joy, wit, wisdom, mentorship.

Once I sorted all my pieces, and layered in those of others, these absolutely beautiful themes emerged: joy, justice, good trouble, good naturedness, integrity, ingenuity, boundlessness.  And love.  So many people reflected on his capacity for love, especially for his family.  I want to take a minute to acknowledge how much we—all of us here who called him friend and colleague—borrowed him from his family. Bobbie, Dan, Emily, thank you.

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I miss him.  I miss his friendship, his quick wit and wisdom, his sartorial style, his guidance, his integrity, and his joyful, joyful spirit.  But I feel as though he would have been riven if he thought we were spending time being sad. He would have wanted us to celebrate.  To dance.  To pursue justice.  To work hard and help people.  To hike and float and fish and picnic.  To throw horseshoes.  To root for the Broncos.  To eat Mexican food at his favorite restaurant and love every bite—and the people who cook and serve it.  To write.  To speak.  To listen to history.  To honor those we disagree with.  To fiercely love the special people around us.  To milk every hour of every day.  To carry on his tireless enthusiasm for and dedication to the people of Colorado. 

So, in the way that he guided us before, listen now.  He’s still telling us, that grin on his face, “let’s go do big things.”