A couple of weeks ago, I got a terse email from the husband of one of my college friends that his mother's graveside service was to be held the following Saturday in New Jersey, not far from NYC. I did not even know she had died (truth to tell, I thought maybe she had gone some time ago already). Later emails with my friend filled in a few more details. I had been looking forward to an unstructured weekend, but I decided to go.
As might be expected (and it is, I fear, a cliche') anticipating the service shot me right back to college days 35 years ago. Late nights working in the college theatre and parties, parties, parties. Nicknames like Skipper, Gumbo, Big George, Space Cowboy, Churl and Chucky-Bird. Subsequent days of hanging out in NYC and upstate at their home before they moved to PA. Thanksgivings and Christmases up in sometimes-snowy Lake Peekskill. And of course, we were all younger. And thinner.
No one knew me at the service except my friend, her husband, and some friends of theirs from the NY area. And the husband's brother's wife. Though I had met both of them long ago, Brother did not remember me at all. The MIL would have remembered me maybe, as I met her numerous times. She was opinionated and loud - Bayonne born and bred. She once said of Bayonne, "I was born in Bayonne and I'll die in Bayonne. They'll have to carry me out." This was not strictly true, as she moved to PA with her son and daughter-in-law in the late 80's, but in spirit she was absolutely correct. My friend said the nursing home staff members were devastated - how many loud, opinionated Bayonne natives end up in quiet Western PA? She was the life of their workday party. The gravesite included a very handsome portait of her cat (now residing, I understand, at my freind's house), and her urn draped in her dimestore pearl necklace - who could possibly argue with that?
I thought my friend and her husband looked pretty good, considering the time that had passed. I wondered if I looked as good, considering the same. We had lunch at a real new Jersey diner and the handful of us yakked together along with my friend's almost-adult daughters (whom I had not seen since they were babies). Except that we could not talk about Mother (because her sons would have burst into tears if we had), it was more like a reunion than a funeral. The other attendees tried to keep the occasion relatively somber, but happily they did not really succeed.
I never knew Emily well enough to know whether she enjoyed a drink, but here's to her anyway. She lived life fully, thanks to her two boys, who took her on trips to Vegas and to the first Arthur Treacher's in New Jersey. And finally, she furnished the occasion for a group of old (and getting older) friends to get together, to talk, to discover, and to still recognize each other after all this time.
No comments:
Post a Comment