What A Good Boss Leaves Behind

I have started writing this several times.

Each time, I find myself staring at the screen, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say about Tony Gowan retiring from the City of Papillion.

The problem is that “congratulations on your retirement” doesn’t seem like enough.

Neither does “thank you for 33 years of service.”

Both are true and well deserved. And both are things I hope Tony hears from everyone who has had the privilege of knowing him.

But when I think about Tony retiring, I don’t think first about 33 years.

I think about 2008, five full-time employees, a new Parks Director taking over a department. and about a friendship that, in many ways, I didn’t realize was being formed at the time.

Because Tony wasn’t just my boss.

He became my mentor.

And somewhere along the way, he became my friend.

Five Employees and a New Parks Director

When Tony took over as Parks Director in 2008, I was one of the first five full-time employees working for him.

Just five of us.

I don’t know that any of us understood at the time that we were part of the beginning of something that would last for the next 18 years.

We were just working.

There were parks to take care of, fields to maintain, problems to solve, and a continual list of things that needed to get done.

That was the job.

But looking back now, I realize that Tony was doing something else at the same time.

He was building a department.

More importantly, he was building people.

I was one of those people.

Tony trusted me.

That may sound like a simple thing, but it wasn’t.

He gave me room to do my job. He didn’t feel the need to stand over my shoulder. Instead, he allowed me to make decisions and allowed me to learn. And, yes, he allowed me to make a few mistakes along the way.

That’s how you learn.

That’s how you grow.

And eventually, that trust led to one of the most important things a boss can ever give an employee:

the freedom to leave.

He Let Me Go

There came a point when I wanted to see what else was out there.

I wanted to try something different, to find out what I could do outside of the world I already knew.

Papillion was home, but I knew I couldn’t stay there forever simply because it was comfortable.

So I left.

And Tony let me.

He didn’t make me feel guilty about it or act like I was abandoning him or the department.

He understood, he knew something that I have come to understand much better as I’ve gotten older:

Sometimes the people you lead need to leave in order to grow.

Sometimes you have to let someone walk out the door because you care more about the person than you do about keeping them on your team.

Tony did that for me.

And I will always be grateful for it.

I left Papillion Parks and went to see what else the world had to offer.

For the next nine years, I wasn’t working for Tony.

Nine years is a long time.

People change in nine years.

Lives change.

Careers change.

Friendships change.

And sometimes people who were once an everyday part of your life become people you think about only occasionally.

But Tony was never really one of those people for me.

I always remembered him.

I just never imagined how important he would become again.

Then Came 2020

We all have years that divide our lives into “before” and “after.”

For me, 2020 is one of those years.

Before 2020.

After 2020.

Everything changed.

By October of that year, I was lying in a hospital bed and fighting for every breath.

I was getting weaker by the day, to the point that, eventually, I didn’t even have enough strength to hold my phone up.

Something as ordinary as texting someone had become almost impossible.

And somewhere in the middle of all that sickness and exhaustion, Tony reached out.

He sent me a message to see how I was doing.

I didn’t know then how much that moment would stay with me.

In fact, it is one of the last conscious memories I have of a friend reaching out to me before everything disappeared.

After that, my memories become scattered.

Then they disappear altogether.

I went into a coma.

And for a while, I was simply gone.

Nine Years Didn’t Matter

There is something about being seriously ill that changes the way you look at people.

You begin to realize who really matters, and you realize that life isn’t ultimately about job titles or positions or how many people know your name.

It’s about the people who remember you when they don’t have to.

Tony hadn’t been my boss for more than nine years, and he had every reason to simply go on with his life.

He had parks and facilities to manage, other employees to take care of, and everything else that came with being the Parks Director.

But he remembered me.

And when he heard that I was sick, he reached out.

That meant something.

It still does.

Because when you are lying in a hospital bed and you aren’t sure whether you’re going to make it, you don’t forget the people who take the time to say, I’m thinking about you.

You remember them.

Even when everything else becomes blurry.

Finding My Way Back

Eventually, I survived.

I don’t use that word lightly.

There were times when surviving didn’t feel like the beginning of a new life. It felt like waking up to a life I didn’t recognize anymore.

I had been through something I never expected to experience.

My body had changed, my life had been turned upside down, and my future was anything but certain.

A lot of things I thought would always be there were no longer there.

And when I was at the point where I didn’t know how much longer I could go on, Tony reached out again.

He was one of the first people to contact me and wish me well as I began my recovery.

But he did more than that, he opened a door and essentially told me:

Come back home.

Those three words mean more to me than they probably ever could have meant before 2020.

Because I had spent years thinking that leaving home meant moving forward.

And sometimes it does, sometimes you have to leave to see something different, and to become someone you couldn’t have become if you had stayed exactly where you were.

Tony understood that when he let me leave.

But after everything that happened to me, I learned something else.

Sometimes moving forward means finding your way home again.

What Tony Means to Papillion

The City of Papillion recently recognized Tony as he retired after 33 years of service, and the recognition was well deserved.

Tony has been part of so much of what makes Papillion feel like Papillion.

The parks and facilities, Papillion Days, Winter Wonderland, and all of the countless little things that most people never see because they happen behind the scenes.

And perhaps most importantly, the people.

Tony helped create a positive culture within the City of Papillion.

He helped develop leaders because he helped people learn, and he built an organization that could continue moving forward.

That’s the public story of Tony Gowan.

And it’s a good one.

But there is another story.

It’s the story that doesn’t show up in a city council recognition.

It’s the story of the people who worked for him.

The people he trusted and encouraged; the people he let go when they were ready to try something new.

And the people he welcomed back when life didn’t go the way they expected.

That’s where I fit into Tony’s story.

And that’s where Tony fits into mine.

A Good Boss Doesn’t Have to Keep You

I’ve thought a lot about what made Tony a good boss.

It wasn’t that he always had the answers.

I don’t think any good leader does.

It wasn’t that everything was always easy; it wasn’t.

It wasn’t even that we always agreed; I’m sure we didn’t.

What made Tony different was that he trusted people.

He gave people responsibility.

He let them grow.

And he understood that the people working for him were not simply employees.

They were people with lives of their own.

People with dreams and families; people who might eventually move on.

Tony wasn’t threatened by that.

When I wanted to leave, he didn’t hold me back.

He could have.

He could have made me feel guilty.

Instead, he encouraged me to see what else I could do.

That’s a lesson I have carried with me.

A good boss doesn’t need to keep you forever.

A good boss helps you become the kind of person who can go somewhere else and succeed.

Tony did that for me.

And a Good Friend Doesn’t Forget

But there is another side to this.

A boss might help you build a career.

A mentor might help you build confidence.

But a friend remembers you when the job is long over.

Tony remembered me.

That’s what I keep coming back to.

He didn’t have to check on me in 2020, he didn’t have to send that message, or reach out after I survived.

He didn’t have to tell me there was a place for me back in Papillion.

But he did.

And sometimes the greatest gifts we receive aren’t things.

They’re moments.

A text message or a phone call.

A simple “How are you?”

An invitation to come back.

A reminder that somebody still remembers you.

Those things can mean more than we realize.

The End of an Era

So yes, Tony is retiring.

And that really does feel like the end of an era.

There is something strange about knowing that the person who has been part of Papillion’s parks for so long won’t be there anymore.

Someone else will eventually sit in that office, make the decisions, deal with the problems, worry about the Christmas lights, and make sure the parks are ready.

And that’s okay.

That’s how it is supposed to be.

Tony’s job was never supposed to last forever.

But the things he built will.

The parks will still be there, the trees will continue growing, and the lights will still shine.

Papillion Days will come around again.

Families will continue enjoying the spaces Tony helped create and maintain.

And people he helped along the way will continue carrying pieces of what he taught them.

That’s what a legacy really is.

It isn’t your name on a plaque or a title; it isn’t even the number of years you worked somewhere.

A legacy is what remains in other people.

What I Will Remember

When people talk about Tony’s career, they will talk about 33 years of service.

They will talk about his work as Parks and Facilities Director and about Papillion’s parks.

Perhaps they will talk about Christmas lights, Papillion Days and Tree City USA.

And they should.

But when I think about Tony, I’ll go back to those first five full-time employees in 2008.

I’ll remember being young enough to think I had everything figured out and having a boss who trusted me.

I’ll remember the day I decided it was time to leave and Tony letting me go.

And the nine years that followed, and then I’ll remember October 2020.

I’ll remember being so sick that I couldn’t even hold my phone.

I’ll remember Tony being one of the last conscious memories I have of a friend reaching out to ask how I was doing.

And I’ll remember him being there again when I started finding my way back.

That’s the part of Tony’s story that belongs to me.

And it’s the part I will carry with me.

Thank You, Tony

Tony, I don’t know if I’ve ever properly thanked you.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I didn’t.

But retirement seems like a pretty good time to say it.

Thank you for being my boss, for trusting me, and for giving me room to grow.

Thank you for letting me leave when I needed to leave and for never making me feel like leaving meant I had forgotten where I came from.

Then, thank you for remembering me nine years later, for reaching out when I was sick, and for being one of the first people to wish me well when I started coming back.

And thank you for opening that door.

Thank you for giving me a place to come home to.

I don’t know if you ever realized what that meant.

Maybe that’s the funny thing about friendship.

We don’t always know the weight of the things we do for other people.

Sometimes we send a text or make a phone call because we’re thinking about someone.

Sometimes we say, “Come back.”

And we move on with our day.

But the person on the other end may carry those words for years.

I know I will.

Because there was a time when I wasn’t sure what home looked like anymore.

And you reminded me.

Home can be a place.

But sometimes home is a person.

Sometimes it’s someone who knew you before everything changed and was still willing to know you afterward.

Someone who remembers the person you were, accepts the person you’ve become, and doesn’t need an explanation.

Someone who simply opens the door.

Come back home.

Tony, that’s what you gave me.

And I will always be grateful.

So congratulations on your retirement.

After 33 years, you’ve certainly earned it.

Go enjoy the next chapter.

Enjoy the parks without having to worry about whether everything is working.

Go enjoy Christmas lights without having to make sure they’re all working.

But most of all, enjoy having some time that belongs entirely to you.

You gave a lot to Papillion.

You gave a lot to the people who worked for you.

And you gave something to me that I will never forget.

You gave me the freedom to leave.

And when I needed it most, you gave me a way home.

The City of Papillion will remember Tony Gowan, Parks and Facilities Director, 33 years of service.

I will remember something a little simpler.

Tony Gowan, my boss.

My mentor.

My friend.

And, when I needed it most,

the man who left the door open and told me to come home.

Thank you, Tony.

You have earned this next chapter.

And I hope you know just how many people are better because you were part of their story.

I know I am.