Dead "Dead Head"

In my weekly Plain Dealer obituary feature, "A Life Story," I try to introduce readers in the Cleveland area to Northeast Ohioans they probably never got to know.

I strive to maintain diversity by choosing subjects of various ages, races, ethnicities, faiths, sexual orientations, counties in our circulation area, fields of work and lifestyles.

Keeping it fresh can be a challenge. So when I saw a death notice for Tim "Mowgli" Princic, a dreadlock-coiffed 30-year-old with an abiding appreciation of the Grateful Dead, I felt I needed to do his story. After all, how many opportunities do you get to write about recently deceased Dead Heads?

I have to admit, I was somewhat misled from the get-go. I told one of his relatives that, if I did the story, I would have to explain why he was dead. He was only 30.

I initially feared he might have died of a drug overdose or took his own life. If I had been told the full story of how he died, I probably would have passed on doing it, realizing it could create problems.

I don't recall how it was explained, but I came away believing that Mowgli was in an unfortunate car crash while on his way home from visiting his parents.

It turned out that it was an unfortunate car crash, but it happened while he was leaving a tavern, where he had been partying with friends. Folks I spoke with believed he had intended to crash at a nearby friend's place for the night. Instead, he crashed into a utility pole and died.

I didn't want my special feature to turn into a police report. Of course, I did speak with the spokesman for the police department a couple of days before Mowgli's story was published. At that time, toxicology reports had not come back. So I couldn't state with certainty that Mowgli had been driving drunk, even though that's what police and most everyone else believed.

I tried to present the death sentence in the same tone as the rest of the story of Mowgli's brief free-spirited life.

I started the story as follows: Tim Princic paid for trips and tickets to Grateful Dead shows with bread, butter and American cheese.

The Akron resident, known to many as "Mowgli," made grilled cheese sandwiches on a small propane stove that he kept in his Volkswagen bus or whatever vehicle he was driving.

Princic, who died May 20 at age 30, sold the dollar-a-pop manna to fellow Deadheads (Grateful Dead fans) in an area of the parking lot designated as "Shakedown Street" after the Grateful Dead song and album of the same name.

I wanted to keep the reader engaged in the story. So I didn't say how Mowgli died until later.

I wondered how someone his age could have followed the Dead from venue to venue with a multitude of nomadic disciples, when he was only around 18, when Jerry Garcia, the leader of the band, died.

"At 17, his wandering feet got the better of him," said his mother, Terry. "He and some friends took off for California. His first trip across country and, I believe, where he found his love for the Deadhead community."

Mowgli went on to follow the remnants of the Grateful Dead - its members' spin-off acts - and Dead tribute bands.

The experience of traveling on a wing and a prayer in a Volkswagen bus, which kept breaking down, led to Mowgli's becoming a VW mechanic.

The owner of the garage where Mowgli worked said: "He wanted to learn the old Volkswagens, which I know all about -- the old '60s and '70s era -- which I thought was kind of cool. He was like a free bird."

That's where I seized my chance to talk about the accident.

He also learned to fix the VW's much faster brother, the Audi.

Princic was driving a black 1999 Audi on May 20 when it crashed into a utility pole in Painesville.

He was thrown from the car and died.

Before the accident, he had been visiting family in Lake County and celebrating a friend's birthday at a Painesville watering hole.

I resumed the life story by talking about a quarry park, frequented by would-be flower children, where everybody knows your nickname.

I gave one of the explanations I had heard about how Mowgli got his moniker.

Princic was called "Mowgli," because he reminded friends of the jungle boy from the Rudyard Kipling stories.

"A skinny little boy, never had a shirt on, and he was like a monkey. He was always climbing on stuff," said Princic's former girlfriend, Heather Schaffer.

I showed Mowgli's caring nature and love for Schaffer.

Princic often lifted Schaffer, a paraplegic, out of her wheelchair and carried her to otherwise inaccessible places, so she could share what he experienced.

He once carried her at least 90 steps to the scenic-view area of a lookout tower in the Smoky Mountains.

I ended the story with an expression of Mowgli's attitude on life.

"He would dance naked in the kitchen, just because it's Tuesday," Schaffer said.

"I don't think I've ever met someone who loved life so much, just because it was."

I received a lot of positive feedback on Mowgli's story and not just from folks who knew him. People enjoyed reading an obit about this fascinating live-life-to-the-fullest character.

I expected that I and my superiors would hear from critics, who thought I was an irresponsible journalist who paid tribute to a drunk driver who could easily have taken the lives of others with his reckless behavior. And we did get complaints. But only a few.

Of course, I wasn't paying tribute to Mowgli. I simply provided a snapshot of his life. I don't editorialize. I have faith in my readers' ability to draw their own conclusions.

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