A metaphor occurred to me a couple of weeks ago that helps when thinking of those who have gone. I don't pretend that it is profound, it only helps. We go through life as if it were a subway ride. The ride begins when we climb aboard. We travel to the end of the line. As we go, other people climb aboard. When they do, they have their own histories, their own stories to tell. We converse (this is unlike most rides), we get to know them. They leave. Where do they go? We do not know. Perhaps to continue their stories, their histories. They were fine companions when they joined us. Their absence leaves a hole as we continue our ride.
I never feel I have known my companions well enough or long enough. Their history will always be half-known at best. That is a part of the immeasurable loss that their departure leaves.
Here are those whose loss I felt keenly this year, but their memory includes treasures that will be held close until my ride ends:
Dave Stryker. He was a Morris man whom I had known for more than two decades. He was hardly a friend, an acquaintance, really. And I can't say that I liked him much. But his trial, which stretched from March through May, affected me strongly. Those who knew him well did well by him, keeping the rest of us informed as he slowly moved toward death, and telling us how they remembered him. This was no soppy, dew-filled flower of memories of one passing away. Well, there was a little of that. But his fault-filled humanity was not hidden as his strength ebbed. Morris was his passion, as it is one of mine.He died well, filled and, I think, had his life extended by the strength of that passion. His ashes were placed in a mug. I'll drink happily and heartily from it when it comes my way.
Len Erb. He was my step-father, loved by my mother in the years before her death, a friend of both my parents when my brother and I were children. He was also one of the finest men I have known. Career Navy, he fought in submarines during World War II, commanded one of the first Polaris submarines in the 1960s, and headed the Ingalls shipyard at Pascagoula until he retired. My fondest memory was of him, my brother, and I, sitting in a restaurant in Phoenix after my mother died. We stayed for hours, listening to Len tell his tales. He died in June, a few days before I was to fly to Los Angeles to see him.. I heard many of his stories, but am ready to hear more.
David Long. My brother in law. I didn't know him as a lawyer; I knew him as a husband and father, as one of the family. We learned not long before his death how accomplished he really was as a lawyer for the Justice Department. As the Attorney General told us, they were quite remarkable. Let it be noted that his sense of honor was extraordinary, particularly in an age when honor is little valued.
A few months before he died, as his cancer had advanced far enough that we knew that death would soon come, his daughter Kathryn asked his friends and family to write what they would remember about him. This is how I remember him:
A man enthusiastic. David has had his enthusiasms, which he has pursued with contagious joy. His version of 'This Old Man' was one. A great idea, splendidly made real. His life-long love of 'The Grateful Dead' is another. I treasure his CDs of material from his vast collection. He's educated me about the 'Dead.' Just this morning, in fact, they played 'Touch of Gray' on the radio. I thought: David. And remembered his enthusiasm when it first came out. Good song. Great band. A fine guy.David died at the beginning of August, after having suffered more pain than anyone I have known. It was fortunate for me that I was able to spend several evening with him in his last month. I think I helped him; I know he helped me.
The consummate host. At family events, he has always made sure I knew where the beer was and had one in hand. More than that, he has ensured that the beer at hand was something I would like. I've never thanked him for that, but it has always been appreciated, as has the courtesy with which he treats everyone who comes as a guest to his home. This is, to him, a duty and, it seems, a pleasure.
The Wee Beastie Feastie Host. David was the Swanson version of Johnny Carson. Relaxed, charming, funny. The master. Great.
One of the '51s. He launched the club at our rehearsal dinner, an event caught on tape. The skit is an indelible part of family history. As I remember it, he came up with most of the jokes. The '51s became a group because of that skit; I'm thankful to be a part of it.
A better man than he thinks himself to be. This is a man modest about his talents and his accomplishments. Like most of us, I suspect he has never achieved as much as he hoped. But he has done a lot, more than I think he realizes. Some examples:
He's a fair guitar player, but a gifted song writer. 'Poor Richard Nixon" is, after all, a minor classic.
A major accomplishment: His kids. Grown and growing, they are people to be proud of.
Another accomplishment: "The Big Vince"; the tournament for Vince Terlep. This is no small thing, not just for the effort it has taken to get it going and keep it going, but for what it says about friendship, the friendship David had for Vince.
Professional accomplishments: I don't know enough about what he did professionally, except that he took pride in doing it and did it well. I do know that David had a career given to public service, though better money could be found outside government. I envy him that.
Nick Robertshaw. Nick was a good friend whom I knew for many, many years. He died suddenly--shockingly--when his heart gave out at the end of October. We were stunned. He was the best musician Foggy Bottom Morris ever had and a wonderful, joyous singer. In fact, you could feel joy in everything he did, whether it was singing a slightly naughty song, drinking a good beer, picking mushrooms along a trail, or just watching a thunderstorm from his porch. As with the others lost this year, my picture of the man became broader once people began to tell how they knew him. You would do well to spend some time at the Nick Robertshaw wiki, if you have not yet done so, to learn more about this extraordinary man. Two months later, I have yet to take the full measure of his loss. I fear there is a bucket of tears waiting to fall before I do.
With Nick, and with the others, I learned more about them after they left from others still on the train. It was true of my father and mother after they died. Each time someone leaves, you realize how much you did not know about them, how much of their history was hidden and, to you, lost. For me, these four people have found their stop. For me, their ride is over, their story is finished. It feels like we were just getting to the good part.
