If a clod falls off the continent, Europe is the lesser for it

 

One of my oldest, dearest friends has shuffled off this mortal coil.....Dirk was one of the smartest, most charming, funniest men I ever knew....a fellow lover of the arts, he and I shared many a happy moment listening to music, at an art gallery, or watching a play.....trying exotic new foods.....in our cups.....and he helped me out immeasurably at various dark points in my life. 

Dirk and I met in high school through Latin Club and various AP courses. He was not my lover but did date a girlfriend of mine. I have many happy memories of toga parties and late night shenanigans....We reconnected after college, when Dirk moved to Houston to work at Vinson / Elkins. He befriended my first husband, Greg, and dated my good friend, Gretchen. It was a natural fit and the 4 of us socialized often. When I moved to Plano, early 1990’s, he had moved back to DFW area as well. He squired me around town even as I was visibly pregnant with another man’s baby, distracting me from “my husband is divorcing me while 4 months pregnant with his child “ woes. Dirk was always there with a kind word, thoughtful advice, and a jovial kindness. I don’t think I ever saw him have a bad day.

One of my happiest memories of Dirk comes from our late 20’s : We were walking through the quad at Rice University late one night, in the moonlight, when no one else was around. All was dark and quiet. Ever so faintly, we heard a sound - music, and as we approached, saw a lone student playing “Danny Boy” on a wooden pan pipe. It was one of those strangely delightful, magical moments that happened only with Dirk.....

We continued to do fun things together throughout our lives, whenever our paths crossed.....and promised ourselves that one day, he’d take me sailing on the Bosphorus. Still in my top 10 bucket list items.....

'No Man is an Island' No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

Too many people I have loved have passed away, and this is only the beginning, I know.....My grandmother once said to me that the worst thing about growing old was outliving all your friends. Amen to that.

Dirk : I wait to join you in the Elysian Fields, where we will raise a glass together once again. 

https://paw.princeton.edu/memorial/dirk-m-wilson-84

So it begins

It begins like this : Your high school or college alumni group for years posts only news of engagements, weddings, babies, people’s big job promotions and accomplishments.....till suddenly, one day, you see an obit. The name catches your attention even though the photo looks nothing like the person you remember.

https://www.dignitymemorial.com/fr-ca/obituaries/odessa-tx/mark-owens-5877045

You read the obit and wonder at small weird typos/ comments, and think: How can he have been the love of her life for all those years, when he was the love of mine for one? We met, sitting next to each other in class at Richardson High School, age 17. He begged me to go off to the same college he did. I did not. How might our lives differed, had we chosen another path?

Like popcorn popping, the one obit here or there suddenly picks up in frequency. 2014 produced Mark Owens, a young man whom I dated in 1979. This past 12 months produced two more:

https://haysfreepress.com/2018/12/21/eric-maag-1961-2018/

Eric Maag and I grew up in the same church, St Barnabus Presbyterian of Richardson, Tx. For 18 years Eric was part of a tight knit group of Sunday School, confirmation class, youth group summer camps kids I knew intimately, like brothers and sisters. I remember Eric’s pimply pre-adolescent boyhood self growing all the way up to a lanky 6’2” well proportioned young man, his frame sprawled out in Sunday School pretending to be asleep - no doubt dragged there by his parents, as I had been - pretending not to notice when I wore mini skirts to church. Looking at my legs from under his bangs. I noticed that he noticed. He noticed that I noticed he noticed.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/eric-maag-memorial

Martha MacGranihan was a friend from my college days, one of a group of smart, cute, fun, sassy girls who changed my alma mater forever by their arrival in 1979. Prior to this, females on campus had been of the chunky “thunder thighs”, greasy-haired nerds who filled my STEM university. Amy Farrah-Fowler from “Big Bang Theory” types. The wave of new freshmen arrivals in the fall of 1979 changed all that. We were beautiful AND smart. We loved to dance to New Wave music, drank heavily, had sex freely w young men we met, sampled drugs, embraced hedonism, were ardent feminists, didn’t take ourselves too seriously, believed we could have and do it all, including academic rigor. We were going to change the world. Martha was an integral part of that.

http://www.mykeeper.com/profile/MarthaCluett/

As 2019 winds to a close, I am still thinking and grieving for my old friends. A little piece of me, of my history, has died, too. My granny used to say that she was sad bc she had outlived all her friends. Once our friends are all gone, who remembers or truly knows who we once were?

'No Man is an Island' No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Olde English Version No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee. MEDITATION XVII Devotions upon Emergent Occasions John Donne

Out Brief Candle

A friend of mine from college days, Martha McGranahan, passed away suddenly and unexpectedly last week. Martha was a unique member of a group of strong-willed young women I lived and socialized with over 40 years ago at one of the most rigorous, exclusive top 10 universities in America. We were sassy fearless young women, second wave feminists, gals who helped each other wrangle that difficult passage from childhood to adult as well as build our careers. I remember first bonding with Martha, late one night in the dorm, about how we each hated our first names. There was surely substance abuse involved. Work hard, play hard was our motto. Yet Martha was never mean, always sweet and fun, kind and funky. Martha may have been the purest of the bunch. She marched to the beat of her own drummer, choosing music and arts when we chose business and law. (It was the early ‘80’s, that era of Dress For Success.) I didn’t know her well, but well enough......and I am terribly sad that I won’t get to know her any further. You see, she killed herself.

Martha leaves behind two beautiful daughters, an ex husband all her old friends think is an asshole, a church choir that will never hear her sing again, and a church full of family and friends openly weeping at her funeral. We all questioned ourselves endlessly : What were the signs? What did I miss? I tried to schedule lunch with her awhile back, but had to cancel.....The day she killed herself, Easter Sunday, she carried on as usual, thinking of others, engaged in life and living. Wishing one friend “Happy Birthday.” Going about her business.

Martha and I shared so many interests: arts, the American Southwest and particularly Santa Fe, retro funky fashions and pop culture, and poodles.

I’m going to put this out there, as food for thought : Martha’s passing feels to me like a tragic bookend for the next phase of our lives. I am broken-hearted for her, and for us all. The loss of an old friend. She is the first I’ve heard about from our class who have died; there may be others I have missed. Who will be the last one standing? The other bookend. Yes, funerals are for the survivors, but I believe in the power of ritual, of community, of coming together to mark life’s milestones, good or bad. It’s how we know we are human, by celebrating the memory of a friend, while staving off the darkness of our own demise. Draw the circle ever tighter. My hope is to see as many dear old friends at the memorial as possible. We can convene in a bar afterwards and drink, share memories, laughter and tears. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.