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  • Shalina Miller gives Bill “G.P.” Campos a hug after dropping...

    Shalina Miller gives Bill “G.P.” Campos a hug after dropping off her two children at Linda Vista Elementary in Orange.

  • Bill “G.P.” Campos watches as parents drop their children off...

    Bill “G.P.” Campos watches as parents drop their children off at Linda Vista Elementary in Orange.

  • A student walks by as Bill “G.P.” Campos watches parents...

    A student walks by as Bill “G.P.” Campos watches parents drop their children off at Linda Vista Elementary in Orange.

  • Bill “G.P.” Campos watches parents drop off their children at...

    Bill “G.P.” Campos watches parents drop off their children at Linda Vista Elementary in Orange.

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Samantha Dunn, Coast Magazine editor

Every morning when I drop my son, Ben, off at Linda Vista Elementary in Orange, there stands “G.P.” at the front of the building. In his camouflage cap with “Semper Fi” emblazoned on the breast pocket of his jacket, this retired Marine beams a bright smile at all the kids but keeps a watchful eye on everything else.

Principals come and go, our kids pass through teachers on their way up the grades, new faces arrive in kindergarten and familiar sixth-graders move on to middle school. But here at Linda Vista, one of the constants we all have come to count on – just as we count on the morning bell ringing at 7:55, or Miss Carol the crossing guard blowing her whistle, or the ubiquitous fifth-grade science camp fundraisers – is G.P.

The initials are short for “Grandpa.” His real name is Bill Campos, but even the adults call him G.P. In rain, wind or, most often, brutal heat, this “old grunt,” as he calls himself, has made it his mission every day, all school year long, to report for volunteer duty. He keeps the morning drop-off running smoothly; he helps the harried kindergarten teachers manage the creative chaos in their classrooms; and at recess he’s the one kids turn to for shoelaces that need to be tied, games that need to be refereed, or ouchies that need to be tended to.

I love the fact that G.P. is always there.

And I hate the reason he is.

The morning of Dec. 15, 2012, G.P. showed up to volunteer at school. No one asked him to. It was the day after a murderer walked into Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Conn., and not only blew away 26 lives in the most brutal, cold-blooded way, but ushered into our collective consciousness a terrifying reality: This really could happen anywhere, to anyone, at any time.

It could. It has. It does. It will.

At the time of the tragedy, G.P.’s grandson was in kindergarten at Linda Vista. G.P. and I have shared many conversations and a lot of laughs in the time that we have known each other, but I have never needed to ask him why he came.

While some of us demand more gun laws and others argue about the meaning of the Second Amendment, G.P. just shows up to face the reality of the moment, not merely for his family, but also for all of ours. The ultimate boots on the ground. “Once a Marine,” he said, “always a Marine.”

This is not to say that G.P. is some kind of security guard. He’s not. He’s far more. He knows the names of every kindergartner, and their habits and fears. He knows their parents, too, and the ones who don’t have parents and the ones whose parents won’t be together long. He knows the teachers, and the gossip. He knows the rhythms of what normal looks like at Linda Vista so that he recognizes the exact minute something doesn’t add up.

At this point, I’m sure that’s not all that motivates G.P. to get up early every morning and fight traffic from Riverside to our little school. He must enjoy it – being grandpa to the little kids, regaling the older kids with he-man stories of the military, charming the moms, talking sports with the dads. He probably realizes just how much the teachers, whose class sizes burst at the seams a little more every year, have come to rely on his helping hands.

Most of the time I concentrate on how great it is that my son has another male role model in his life. As much as I like and respect the teaching staff, sometimes it seems they wish every student could be like the kids who sit quietly and color, rather than deal with the wiggle-worm kids like mine who always have their head in the clouds. G.P. barks at kids like my Ben to mind their p’s and q’s, but it’s always clear he appreciates that some little boys are, as the old rhyme goes, “made of snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.” (I suspect he appreciates it because inside he’s still one of these kinds of boys himself.)

Although he might be surprised to know it, I’ve also learned a few things from watching G.P. I came to motherhood late in life and still don’t have that much experience with kids. What I’ve learned from G.P. is that you don’t have to be perfect or know all the answers to be the person kids feel good being around. You just have to show up, and keep showing up. You just have to be the one who is willing to try. You just have to be the one who cares.

Some days, though, when I kiss my Ben’s head of curly hair before he runs off to class, I catch myself reflexively looking around for G.P. Every day I leave Ben it feels like my heart has just run off, with red backpack bounding and shoelaces already coming loose. What would I do if …? Please, God, let none of us ever again have to find out.

I realize no one alone can extinguish insanity, evil and mayhem. But G.P. reminds me that each of us has to try.