Hansen: Onetime roadie traveling toward family

In this digital age of transparency, nothing remains hidden for long.

It was almost exactly a year ago when I met Jimmer Coombs. He was working security at the Blue Water Music Festival in Laguna Beach. With his long gray beard and mischievous smile, I knew he had stories to tell, so I struck up a conversation with him.

He told me he’d been a professional roadie and worked with many famous rock bands in the 1970s and ‘80s. So I wrote a column about his escapades, which included partying — and then getting sober — with Kris Kristofferson.

At the time, he said, “I had a lot of girlfriends, but when I went on the road, I kind of separated it. When you’re on the road you don’t want to come home to a lot of bad news.”

It turns out one of those girlfriends — in Oklahoma — got pregnant and had a daughter named Debra Koinzan, who later had her own daughter, Coombs’ granddaughter. Coombs never knew them — never met them.

The granddaughter is Karli Koinzan, a savvy 20-something who knows a thing or two about the Internet. She recently emailed me out of the blue after finding my column on Coombs.

“I don’t know where to start,” she wrote. “I need very badly to bring my mother in touch with her father, James, or Jimmer, as I’ve learned he likes to be called. She’s never met him and has spent the good part of her life trying to figure out who and where he is.”

Koinzan said it hasn’t always been easy. Not knowing your family can be hard, she said.

“I would do anything to make my mom feel wanted and loved instead of abandoned and unworthy of her father’s love,” she said.

Knowing Coombs, I immediately gave her his phone number.

The young woman called first to test the waters. If Coombs said no, she wanted to be the one to tell her mom. When she called, she got Coombs’ voice mail.

So she gave me the update.

“I just left a voice mail and nearly choked when I heard his voice, so now I can only hope he wants to talk to me,” Koinzan said. “Even if he doesn’t call back, I am so grateful you helped. I will keep you posted because if my storybook fantasy comes true, I will get to see my mom meet her dad for the first time in her life, and maybe you will have a heartwarming story on your hands.”

Meanwhile, Coombs, 76, was sick with the flu, and it took a few days for him to check his messages and return the call.

Koinzan kept sending me dispatches.

“Jimmer called my mom back and they reconnected,” she said, finally. “You and I helped my mom hear her father’s voice for the first time in almost 53 years. Words cannot express how grateful I am.”

Coombs, Karli and Debra have been talking for the last two months. He’s planning a road trip in about two weeks back to Oklahoma, excited for the opportunity to learn about his new family.

“It’s been really cool — and a good feeling, man,” he said. “We’ve really been able to open up to each other and talk about things. I’m sure when I see them we will be able to sit down about talk about everything. I’m kind of stoked about it. I’m really looking forward to it.”

When asked about what happened in the past, Coombs tried to explain the context of the times. It was the 1960s. Things were different. They were young. Mistakes were made.

“I’ve lived through a lot of crazy stuff,” he said. “I was living like a pioneer. I know how I went through it. I know everybody goes through things differently. But you really can’t have no grudge match against it.”

What matters, he said, is how you move forward and try to do the right thing.

“We’ll find out a lot. I’ll learn a lot,” he said. “I’ll be able to spend some time with them. I’ve got a lot of things to share. I’m not really out of place with it or anything. I have a really comfortable feeling about it, so that’s what I go on.”

Just as he did for countless rock bands, Coombs will be on the road and driving again.

Only this time, he will be driving to a home that’s been waiting for him for more than 50 years.

DAVID HANSEN is a writer and Laguna Beach resident. He can be reached at hansen.dave@gmail.com.