By Kate Stockrahm
I try to keep my Village Life contributions light, my friends, but this year is not off to a great start.
We’ve lost so many good people – so many good, Flint people – since the clock struck midnight and ushered us into 2026.
For me, the first was Heather Burnash. A long-time Flint lawyer, problem-solver, and all around doer, I didn’t know to be intimidated when we first spoke: I just called her up because she was the Chair of the Historic District Commission and I was covering the Saginaw Street restoration project.
She was generous with her time, despite a cold-call from a newer-to-Flint reporter, and we ended up talking about her grandfather, a bricklayer, whom she spoke of with deep pride as she told me of his work on Flint’s main thoroughfare. She kept a beautiful house near the highway that I admired on walks around my old apartment building nearby. When she passed away in January, much too young, I cried as I drove by it on my way to my new home, wishing that I’d just gone over and knocked on her door sometime, or thanked her more often for all of the ways she served Flint.
There have been so many others since – in such quick succession it feels like whiplash.
Just a couple of weeks ago, in late February, we lost two prominent downtown personalities: David Wall, who worked at the Ferris Wheel’s Biggby Coffee and always greeted you – friend or soon-to-be friend – with a smile; and Levon Coleman, whom most knew as “Peanut.”
In fact, as my friend Joel Rash said on Facebook, trying to help us all process Peanut’s awful, unexpected passing with a bit of levity: “I knew Peanut for at least thirty years, but didn’t find out until today that his government name was Levon Coleman.”
Joel went on to mention Peanut’s distinctive dreadlocks, the difficult life he’d lived and his kind demeanor despite it, and his omnipresence for all of us who frequent Saginaw Street. I’ll admit I’ve been avoiding walking along the downtown strip since his death, even as the weather has started to warm. It just won’t be the same without him.
Then there’s the losses adjacent to me, those I’m seeing my Flint people experience and wishing I could take some of their pain away.
These are perhaps hardest, personally, because I can only watch as these community pillars – these leaders whom I fiercely respect and that always show up for everyone else in Flint – become suddenly, critically human.
I want to scream as they quietly bear their pain, pausing from the day’s duties only to quickly text how much their heart hurts. I want to break things as I’m copied in on emails showing how these solid, Flint folks still, incredibly, continue to consider others – scheduling meetings, sharing resources, answering neighbors’ calls – even while faced with the immeasurable grief of losing a dear friend, a spouse, a parent.
I don’t know what to offer here, or even what I’d hoped to offer in acknowledging all of this loss instead of my usual attempt at a bit of self-effacing humor and some sort of message about the start of spring or something. Truly everything I start to type feels trite – another platitude on “being kind to each other” or remembering that “you have no idea what someone else might be going through.”
But Flint is family, it’s our home, and when any one of us is hurting we all are.
So, yeah, I guess I do want to offer those platitudes. Because we should be kind to each other – not just in times of grief but always. Hug your people, show up for strangers in need, and insist on supporting your community – this strange, beautiful family we call Flint.
It’s a long way to 2027, friends, but it’s just a short distance to your neighbor’s house. Go check in, and let’s be better to each other while we can. Life’s too precious to do otherwise.
Editor’s Note: This article originally ran in East Village Magazine’s March 2026 print edition.
