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August 7, 2004 ~ Memorial to John
Saturday.
December, 1998. We were approaching Asheville. Subtle Appalachian mountains rolled below me; I picked out small houses, trees. Morgan and his friend Brad met me there at the airport. Morgan pulled me into a hug, both of us hardly believing the other was real, after years of three thousand miles separating us, only one brief one week respite when he'd come to visit me in Oregon. I kept having to remind myself, This is real. I'd be staying in this new strange place. For good. This was my new home, I'd made my decision, and I couldn't turn back now.
Morgan and Brad complained about the weight of my two duffle bags. "That's all that I own, so no wonder it's heavy. I can carry it." The two boys scoffed, "No, no, we'll carry them, it's nothing, no problem," boastful now.
I spent my first month in North Carolina homeless, hiding in Morgan's dorm room at the college beyond my allotted "guest stay" and boarding at Morgan's parents' houses over the winter break. Morgan kept for me in Pokey's trunk the two duffle bags with all of my things. That first week, I went with him to his classes during his finals, and I explored the college where I'd be starting classes the next semester. I met Morgan's college friends. Spent a few nights visiting with Brad, who was attending nearby UNCA.
Then classes were out for winter break; we drove down to the Piedmont. A whirlwind of meeting all of Morgan's family--parents, brother, and relatives. They, I soon realized, would be the closest thing to family that I'd have here. I lived out of Pokey, I tried not to impose.
Morgan grew up in a group of four close-nit friends. Morgan, Brad, Evan, and Jake. I'd already met Brad back in Asheville. "Tonight, we're going to Evan's house," Morgan told me. "You've got to meet Evan and Jake. Brad will be there too."
A button had snapped off my coat, and I sewed it back on the drive over, across country, down old narrow country roads, past lit-up farmhouses, the stars so bright overhead. We pulled down a forested drive, which opened into a clearing where an old brick farmhouse stood. Light glowed from the windows onto the porch.
We went in. The four boys who grew up together were so easy with one another, picking on each other mercilessly, especially on Morgan that night, "Melissa, he is completely lost for you, you know that, right? I mean, he's paid absolutely no attention to any of us all this year, caught up on that computer talking to you, always sneaking off to check email..." I felt as if I'd suddenly acquired three new brothers, teasing yet protective, warm and open.
The old farmhouse. I'd heard so much about these people. Evan, his dogs, his old house with the woods and the spring and the creek, and his wonderful parents, Pam and John, whom Morgan considered his second parents, he was over there so frequently. Visiting them whenever he came back to the Piedmont. Pam always nearby, kind, quiet, so welcoming--what seemed an amused sparkle behind her eyes. John, his music (instruments scattered about the house), a mischievous grin and a tease on his lips. Both of them were curious about me, and friendly, careful to make sure I felt comfortable and welcome. "We've heard so much about you from Morgan. I always hear him typing at the computer on the landing late at night, after the other boys have gone to sleep," Pam smiled.
Their life seemed enchanted, a beautiful house, good food, amazing music, and love so strong you could feel it, tangible, there in the room when they caught each other's eyes. Morgan and I visited many times after that first night, basking in the warmth, attending Passover Seders, listening to John play, cooking dinner in the kitchen, me sleeping over in Evan's attic bed (the boys on the couches downstairs). Fourth of July parties, fireworks, huge potluck spread fifty feet long. When I thought of Pam and John, I thought generosity, kindness, liveliness, and a deep and amazing love. A beautiful life.
We got the word last Sunday morning. John had died suddenly of a heart attack, while attending a fiddler's convention. Only fifty-one, so healthy... to say it was a shock to everyone who knew him is an understatement. There was so much life in that man. His death is nearly impossible to believe.
Sunday afternoon, Morgan raced down to the Piedmont so that he and Jake could be with Evan and Pam. I stayed here alone (I had to work on Monday). When bad news like this comes, my first reaction is always to pull Morgan closer; yes, to grieve, but also to give thanks, to appreciate what I have. There in the empty house, the bed empty next to me at night, I contemplated how impossible it is for me to conceive of life without Morgan. This, after our few short years together; how entwined and dependent our lives are on each other already. Pam and John had just celebrated their 30th anniversary, had such a strong, amazing relationship. Were I Pam, I'd be lost. Completely and utterly lost.
Morgan returned in the wee hours Tuesday morning, held me and told me of his visit. We cried a little for Pam and Evan, and, of course, for John.
Wednesday morning, we started the drive back down to the Piedmont, this time together. Three hours later, we pulled into the Piedmont Unitarian Universalist Church. The heat and humidity of August in the Piedmont struck me like a wall as I stepped out of the car, reminding me to appreciate the cooler climate we have in the mountains.
We were early. Jake met us out front in a dark suit, quiet, subdued, not his normal joking, smiling self. Inside, we sat in the large room with its beautiful wooden floor and a wall of windows overlooking the woods behind. Flowers, a podium, and musical instruments everywhere. John's instruments. But one empty guitar stand on top of the piano. For his famous Martin, I guessed. One of John's bands (he was a member of two) was playing old-time music in a corner up front as guests arrived. Soon, the room was packed to overflowing. People stood along the walls and back isle, in the adjoining kitchen, packed into the hallway, all of the classrooms (where speakers were set up to relay the service), and many even stood outside the front windows, looking in. I couldn't help but think that the huge crowd in and of itself was a tribute to John and the way he lived his life. Touching everybody he met, living as such an inspiration.
A quiet fell over the room as Evan walked up the isle carrying a battered guitar case. He stopped in front of the piano, set the case down. Slowly opened it. Carefully, he pulled his father's old Martin guitar out, placed it on the stand, made sure it was secure, then made his way to his seat.
John had always said he was almost jealous of Evan's musical talent--his son had already outdone him and would go far; and someday Evan would inherit that Martin and play it better than he ever had. We knew this, most of the people in that room knew this, for John was very proud of his son. Evan carrying his father's Martin down the isle had more gravity and meaning than pallbearers would have.
The minister, Wyman, then escorted Pam down the isle and to her seat next to Evan. He then stood at the podium and said a few short words about death and remembrance, but even more about life, and a life well-lived. Wyman then told us the story of John's life, with several personal anecdotes, often drawing, alternately, tears or laughter from the crowd. I found that I learned a great deal about John's life, and I really appreciated the biography, since I came away from the service knowing the man even better than I had.
Every funeral or memorial that I'd ever been to before had spent very little time talking about the life of the person who had died. Frequently, it was mostly an impersonal sermon on keeping faith in God in the presence of death, or, in some cases, justifications of certain belief systems. (In one, a hellfire and brimstone warning). I was thankful to learn about how John had served as a Chaplain's Assistant during Vietnam, or about how he'd grown food instead of flowers when he'd been put in charge of the army base landscaping. The wood floor beneath us in that church, John had helped get into place.
The rest of the service consisted of John's friends sharing stories about his life, of friends singing and playing songs that he'd loved. Again, laughter and tears. A celebration of whom John was in life.
Near the end, in honor of John's Jewish heritage, the Mourner's Kaddish, something he himself had often suggested at services, was read in Hebrew and then in English, then a responsive reading from the Book of Jewish Common Prayer:
Minister: In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
We remember them.
Congregation: In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of the winter,
We remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,
We remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
We remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
We remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart
We remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
We remember them.
All: So long as we live, they too shall live,
for they are now a part of us,
As we remember them.
Back down those country roads, back to that old farmhouse. The Wake. People everywhere, food laid out throughout the house and in the front yard, cars overflowing down the drive and covering one of the side fields. People laughing and crying, hugging and whispering and yelling, people leaving letters to Pam or John or Evan in the little guest book, passing around family photo albums. John's bands jamming in the side yard. Everywhere, stories of his life being shared.
Giving Pam a hug as she thanked us for coming down ("How could we not?"). Looking at John's collected instruments, feeling a sad twinge upon noticing one of his incomplete projects. Being introduced to a hundred different people. Talking to Evan and Jake and Brad and Brad's wife Kira. Watching the fireflies come out over the field. Having to leave, and that long car ride home to talk.
May I live my life so fully, so bursting with love and laughter. May I inspire others to live beautifully, as John did, in this precious life we are gifted, even if my years are cut far too short, as his were.
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