If someone had walked into the sanctuary Friday at the end of the memorial service for Mike Nolan, it may have been a jolt to hear the Guns N’ Roses version of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” playing while Clark County Sheriff Garry Lucas presented Nolan’s widow with a folded U.S. flag.
But for the approximately 700 people who attended the 90-minute memorial for the late commander at the Clark County Sheriff’s Office, it was not surprising to hear, after a stirring “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes and solemn “Taps” on a bugle, the piercing sounds of Axl Rose:
Mama take this badge from me
I can’t use it any more
It’s getting dark, too dark to see
Feels like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door
“Michael hated funerals,” his widow, Erin Nolan, chief civil deputy for the Sheriff’s office, told the audience near the start of the service at New Heights Church.
The service was going to reflect his spirit, she said. That meant attendees were going to hear Kid Rock and Guns N’ Roses. They would learn Nolan swore and joked and loved to party and “had no patience for burnt eggs,” at the same time they heard about his distinguished career in law enforcement, his close-knit family and his civic involvement which included serving on the La Center City Council and volunteering with La Center Little League.
Michael Joseph Nolan died June 30 of an aggressive form of brain cancer that was diagnosed in late May. He was 49.
He’s survived by Erin and his children, Kirsten, Trenton, Sean and Grace, as well as his father, one brother and three sisters.
A 1978 graduate of Evergreen High School, Nolan was one of six children whose family settled in Vancouver when his father, who was in the U.S. Army, was assigned to the Vancouver Barracks.
It was the perfect place for a little warrior to grow up, Erin said.
After high school, he worked at Burgerville, the International House of Pancakes and the Red Lion, and earned his associate degree at Clark College.
He had nights of “heavy partying and bad dancing,” Erin said. The daredevil in him, the one that loved riding a motorcycle and later loved being a pilot, helped him seek out, then embrace, a career in law enforcement.
He began working at the Sheriff’s office in 1982.
As a bearded, mulleted deputy working undercover in narcotics, he was so convincing as a scruffy doper that his own mother didn’t recognize him once when she was leaving WinCo, Erin said.
As a detective, he drew out confessions from bad guys because, Erin said, “their ears were tired and his line of BS was a mile long.”
Most recently, he was commander of special operations, overseeing SWAT and marine patrol, among other units.
It was his dream job, his wife said.
“Michael Nolan had a life well-lived,” Erin Nolan said. “He valued courage above all else.”
Whether arresting felons or raising children or facing death, “courage carries you through the battle even if you don’t win,” she said.
He balanced his sense of honor with a sense of humor, and both traits came through during a video of short interviews with co-workers and family.
Former deputy Rod Rowan said he first met Nolan in the booking area of the Clark County Jail. Nolan was trading quips with the suspect.
Rowan said he’d never known an officer “to bring someone to jail and make it a fun experience for them.”
Deputy Bryan Skordahl recalled when he and Nolan were assigned to fly to Bakersfield, Calif., to pick up a suspect. He said he was piloting the plane, so it was Nolan’s job to give the prisoner a safety briefing before takeoff. Skordahl expected to hear Nolan give a routine speech, maybe helpfully point out the location of an air sickness bag.
“Mike was a little bit more to the point,” Skordahl said. “He just told the guy, ‘Hey, just want to let you know we will shoot you long before we crash this airplane.’”
Family members talked about how Nolan was never too busy for his children, and when he learned that he was terminally ill he was worried about his family, not himself.
Pastor Matt Hannan said he met Nolan after Sgt. Brad Crawford was killed in 2004.
Nolan had never been a churchgoer. He confided to Hannan that, when Hannan was speaking to deputies after Crawford’s death, he leaned over to a co-worker and said, “If I were ever to get into this (expletive), this is the guy I would listen to.”
Hannan said he spent considerable time with Nolan after Nolan learned he had cancer.
“In our initial meetings, I felt like a confidential informant,” Hannan said. But he praised Nolan for putting his faith in Jesus, which helped him face the shocking news that he was going to die.
Nolan was a standout in an era when too much emphasis gets placed on image, Hannan said.
“It’s very fair to say Mike was not about image, and any money spent on charm school was wasted,” Hannan said. “But he was about character.”
“Mike knew something about honor,” Hannan said. “He taught you kids, ‘You got Nolan blood,’” he said, looking down at Nolan’s family in the front row.
After the service, the family was escorted out first.
As much as the ceremony included lighthearted moments that provoked laughter, and though Erin said her late husband would tell people to quit their “waterworks” and “get busy, get out there and live,” perhaps the most telling image was that of Nolan’s 13-year-old son.
He walked up the aisle, crying, hugging the folded flag to his chest.
Stephanie Rice: 360-735-4508 or stephanie.rice@columbian.com.
