In the summer of 2017 – feels like antiquity – my mother’s side of the family tree held a reunion in New York City.  This Antolept gathering of the flock brought together the descendants of a Lithuanian-based Jewry who had dispersed to four continents due to war, anti-Semitism and hopes for a better life.

For a couple of days during the reunion, Jean and I stayed with sister Laurie and brother Robie in an Airbnb-rented brownstone walk-up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn.  We ate brisket, walked the Eastern Parkway border abutting the Chassid-dominated Crown Heights neighborhood, and strolled Prospect Park with our newly discovered cousin Rhona.

Rhona, a bright, professionally accomplished, energetic, and delightful early retiree, loved telling jokes. Not always great jokes… but jokes delivered with a joyousness that prompted smiles. 

We just instantly felt close to Rhona and as we departed, she said with the utmost seriousness, “You know, I have a lovely apartment in Brooklyn Heights. I’m rarely there, as I spend most of my time in my home in Pennsylvania.  You are welcome to stay at my apartment anytime you are in the city.  Stay a night, a week, a month… whatever you want.”

“Are you serious?” I responded.

“Absolutely!” she quickly replied.  “But I have only two conditions.”

“OK,” I said out loud, but thought, “here comes the catch.”

“Two conditions: First, is that you water the plants once a week.  Second, is that you have fun.”

Rhona let out a big laugh and a bigger smile as I said, “we might just take you up on that.”

“You do that. But remember, you must have fun.”

Fast forward four years.  Last summer I visited NYC and on the last night of my trip I stayed with Rhona in her 3^rd floor apartment in the exquisitely precious and historic Brooklyn Heights neighborhood. Upon our parting, Rhona reissued her offer and restated the same conditions.

And here we are now, March 2022, in the middle of one month in Brooklyn Heights.  For Jean and I took Rhona up on her extraordinary offer and are endeavoring to meet our obligations. Jean is handling the plant watering duties.  And we are both chasing bliss.

Having fun… this is always a sword tinged with guilt for me. My affluence, relative to the peoples of the world, allows for indulgences. Any problem with that?  “Of course, there is!” says the ever-present gnarly little ethicist dangling from a live oak tree in my amygdala. But then my rational hippocampus counters with the reality that one’s joy does not need to reduce others, and in fact, can induce positive effects more broadly. You know. Fun breeds fun.  Which is my guess as to Rhona’s view for her guests.

So, fun it is and fun it will be on the trip.

Our good friend Brian joined us for a few days. One afternoon we all took in the Whitney Art Museum then attended a taping of “Late Night with Seth Meyers.” Hilarity ensued, but no pictures were permitted.

The next day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge…

Across to downtown New York…

Down into the financial district…

Where we rubbed horns with Wall Street’s brass bull.

For the last couple of weeks, we have chowed down on delicacies from local delis and specialty ethnic restaurants.

Terrific baba ghanoush, hummus and tzatziki. Et cetera!

Our cousins Shirley and Dan will be joining us soon. The pace will pick up immediately.  Museums to visit. Broadway shows to be wowed by.  Coney Island demands a Nathan’s visit. Dan is looking into a train ride out to Montauk.

There is a pace to travels, when you have one or two weeks and you want to see stuff. Shirley and Dan are on that ride. Up to now, that hasn’t been our pace.  We are reveling in doing nothing in the apartment.  Maybe a short walk to take in the extraordinary skyline views from the Brooklyn Promenade first thing in the morning. 

Or rounding the corner for a hot bagel.  Or going no further than the living room and settling down for a long read with one of Rhona’s books.

One can, of course, enjoy a good book at home. But doing so in an historic and gracious apartment in Brooklyn Heights is just plain fun. And after all, that is our obligation.

This blog entry is in response to an assignment in my writing class. The instruction was to create a “Craft Paper.” As I understood it, we were asked to explore some aspect of the writing process or some type of writing. Here, the topic is writing and delivering eulogies.

Writing for Giving Praise as if Life Depended on It

“Arthur Sigmund Farber is dead, and we have come together to mourn and to pay tribute to his life. We have come to review, reflect and understand once again what he was, what he believed, what he fought for, and how Arthur has – and still will – affect us in our lives, in this world. And he still will affect us because Arthur Farber was a quite remarkable man.”

• Daniel Farber, Age 25, Portion of Eulogy for Father

My father, Professor Arthur Farber, taught a course called Death and Dying at the University of Washington School of Social Work.  As a class highlight, he would take his students on a weekend retreat and ask them to write an autobiographical eulogy.  It was a neat trick, really.  A strategic tool designed to get each student thinking about their life. To assess what really matters… in the end.

Aging, death and dying were regular parts of our home’s dinnertime conversations.  One wintry evening, we even hosted Elizabeth Kubler-Ross[1] for dinner and professional dialog. As a hilarious bonus, Elizabeth tutored me through my middle school German lesson. Stages of grief indeed!

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elisabeth_K%C3%BCbler-Ross

So it is with humility, and some dose of shame, that I recall my teenage self being anxious and awkward at communicating with the ill and dying. In one memorable incident, I visited a dear family friend who had cancer. Hers was a gloomy prognosis, and I did not know how to approach our conversation. Surprisingly, she recovered to live 10 more years! Yet I remember feeling that with my family academic inheritance, I should have known better how to converse with a terminal patient. I should have done better.

As it turns out, I and most everyone else who has the privilege to grow old, get plenty of practice conversing about death and dying. Both talking with the dying and talking about the recently dead. Usually, this talk is spontaneous and informal.  But occasions for formal writing and speaking about the recently departed tend to come up with increased frequency as one ages.

I have volunteered or found myself asked more than half a dozen times to perform eulogies at memorial services.  These opportunities for research, writing and oral presentation have been profoundly gratifying. The eulogizing process deepens and informs the grief process.  It heals the writer, certainly no less than it serves other mourners.

To better understand why it has been of such benefit, I decided to look into the history, purpose and process of writing and delivering a eulogy.

Civilization: Writings about Death and Life

Death is a central concern of the living.  Humanity has always placed great importance on public rites of mourning. Many – perhaps most – funerial rituals do not place a layperson’s eulogy as a central expectation.  Often, the professional clergy take on that responsibility. Yet, some form of praise and honor for the dead seems a universal ritual.

A core Islamic rite in China is the speaking of the “Hundred-Word Eulogy.” African-American eulogetic practice derives from a fusion of African indigenous religious tradition and primarily Christian New World ritual.  The ancient Greek practice of epitaphios logos, or the Athenian funeral oration, established formal speech expectations during funerary ceremonies. Honoring the dead, and their contribution to the polis, was essential for the ongoing health of the polis.

The word eulogy itself comes from the Greek eu- meaning “good” and -logia meaning “words.”  Its focus is on the praising of an individual, and for the most part, eulogies are oral prose presentations – speeches aimed for delivery at memorial events.

Eulogies can be distinguishable from similarly written expositions, though there are many overlapping characteristics. Consolatios are a wide range of literary devices used in ancient times, including speeches, essays, poems and letters, designed to console readers as they go through the mourning process. Elegies are poems of praise or tribute to the departed. They may be read at a funeral or provided in writing. Paeans are songs of praise or triumph. The subject may be an individual or many people or events.    Panegryics are public speeches or public texts praising people or things.  Eulogies are a kind of panegyric. Tributes are acts or gifts, but also statements, intended to show gratitude or respect to individuals or groups. Obituaries are written tributes to individuals found in newspapers or other broadly accessed media. They usually contain a very short description of the major relationships, events, and accomplishments of the individual. Biographies are generally longer and attempt to provide a more comprehensive assessment of the individual’s impact on family, friends and the larger society. Epitaphs are expressions found on a gravestone.

All those terms are, to an extent, eulogistic. They are attempts, through words, to rise to the high challenge of praise as a means of healing through mourning.

Eulogies in American Popular Culture:

Eulogies in the United States are often delivered by a close relative or friend of the deceased at the funeral or memorial.  They are opportunities to both express deep emotion and connect the subject’s life to the lives of the rite’s participants.

The first eulogy I ever delivered was at my father’s funeral.  In practical terms, it was a team effort, described in its beginning as:

“the product and process of family members coming together with their special memories, of excerpts from Arthur’s recent journal, and of past letters he has written us. We see this effort as a part of our mourning, as well as our healing and our learning. Let us use this time of his death as a focus toward his life, and ours.” 

I subsequently delivered or had a significant hand in writing eulogies for my mother and sister, grandparents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, friends and colleagues.  Never once did I prepare by researching the structure or approach to writing eulogies. Nor have I read any of the numerous books on the topic with such titles as “The Art of Writing a Eulogy” or “Eulogy Writing:  For Beginners!  How to Write The Perfect Eulogy & Funeral Speech.”[1]

[1] Those titles come from an Amazon.com book search for “Eulogies.”

Of course, now, like every other aspect of modern life, when a question comes up, one can “ask Google.” If the question is raised “What should be included in a eulogy?”, the Googled response is:

Share her notable life accomplishments.

1. Retell your favorite stories from growing up together.
2. Highlight the kind of person she was.
3. Summarize your relationship in a few short words.
4. Talk about what she meant to you and how she influenced your life.

Entire websites – businesses – are built upon the premise that people need assistance in the writing of eulogies.  Speech Form  https://www.speechform.com/ is one such site. It provides a fill-in-the-blank approach to guidance, i.e., “___ was a very special guy and I really miss him.”

Eulogizing has been a source of galvanizing people toward emotional and political unity. President Ronald Reagan’s statement after NASA’s Challenger disaster not only saved the space program but also improved his popularity. He poetically proclaimed:

“We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God.”

President Clinton’s ranking in public opinion polls soared immediately after his eulogizing the fallen from the Oklahoma City Federal Building bombing:

“You have lost too much, but you have not lost everything. And you have certainly not lost America, for we will stand with you for as many tomorrows as it takes.”

Hollywood movies have many examples of eulogies as a way to humanize their characters and emotionally connect audiences to their stories.  Here’s one example from the comedic movie Trainwreck : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVXT4sv2JI4

Considerations for the Writing and Presentation of Eulogies

There are no rules for how to write and give a eulogy, nor even expected principles of prose or performance. My own experiences in listening to and giving eulogies does not provide proof of their quality nor the value of their reception.  Nevertheless, reflection and self-evaluation on these examples has left me with eulogistic approaches that have “felt right” and seemed to work for me. So, I provide some ideas to consider, if the task – and opportunity – to eulogize is to fall upon you.

1. Start with inquiry.  Contact the subject’s loved ones and those who cared about and knew the subject.  Ask them what was most important, striking and distinctive about the person. Ask them for stories or specific memories that they could share which capture the essence of the person. These could be happy memories or just memories of import. Tell people that you would like to share their memories with others, if possible, either in a eulogy or other mechanism. If people respond to your inquiry in writing, all the better if you can quote their responses in the eulogy.
2. Eulogies are wonderful opportunities for subjects to express their own beliefs and self-descriptions, if you can find and use examples of their writings.  If you have such examples, read and select the most representative of them.  Ask others for examples of a subject’s writings. They may be formal documents written for professional use, or simple personal letters or notes.  All writings can provide insight into the nature of the subject.
3. Eulogies should give a sense of the positive impact of a subject on family, friends and the world. The eulogist’s goal is praise, yes, but also accuracy.  Life throws everyone loops.  Challenges.  Hardships.  How did the subject deal with those? Are there stories of overcoming adversity? How was it done?  What was the effect on the subject and others?
4. What did the subject accomplish in their life?  What were they proud of? What were they known for?  Can you describe significant moments throughout their life, from birth through death?
5. Talking about a person who just died is talking about life. Theirs, yours, others, and an argument to be made about universal truths. What does their life say about what is important in life? What can people learn from the example of the subject?
6. Death is about loss and sadness and pain, so it is important to include loss as part of the summing up about the subject.  What will you and others miss?  If the subject was very old and had a wonderful life, there is still a hole.  If the person died an untimely death, be it accident, crime, or illness, there will inevitably be a greater sense of tragedy in the eulogizing moment.
7. The means of death is likely something that people will want to know about. Not all the details, but at least the core cause of death. Then people will benefit from your, or others, reactions to that cause.
8. There should be humor to the extent that you believe the subject would appreciate it and the audience would be receptive. If the humor could come from quotes from the subject, all the better. The nature of humor can bring out distinctive aspects of a subject’s character.
9. The spoken delivery is a vital part of the communication, and should match as much as possible or knowable, the character of the subject. Talking slowly, with clear enunciation and volume is essential. Emotional resonance comes from whatever is real for the speaker. Crying is not only appropriate, but often unavoidable. Yet the orator must also stay audible. For the audience to see the eulogist’s emotions, gives permission for their own emotions to present.
10. If you are lucky enough to have samples of the subject’s writings or music or other artistic creations, it is a wonderful opportunity to interweave them into the eulogy. Perhaps you can have different people read excerpts from the subject’s letters/emails or other writings.  This brings the subject “alive” in a real way.
11. If you know what the subject enjoyed or took solace from or strongly believed in, it would be of special value to include that somehow in the eulogy.  Did the subject have a favorite author? A favorite quote?  A favorite sports team?  Anything that distinguished the subject in the eyes of others, would be of great value in the description of the subject’s life.
12. Finally, if possible, find a way to include those present in the content of the eulogy. Find a way to recognize the importance of them in the life of the subject.

A life cannot fully be summed up by eulogizing.   But putting together a eulogy is an opportunity to give the gift of attention to a person.  To think of them intently and to attempt to pay great respect for their life, and for those whose lives the person touched. Delivering a eulogy heightens the critical moments of shared grief, and if you are fortunate to grow old and retain the document, the opportunity for many years of reflection and sweet, recoverable memories.

I’ve been going over personal correspondence from my life. My purpose is to fill in memory gaps on a longer piece I’m writing about my mother. You’ll see it here on the blog soon.

I kept every letter and card that I felt at the time mattered.  Mostly letters I received. But also letters I sent to my mother and father, sisters, grandparents and friends that made it back into my possession… somehow.

The letters stretch from my birth (congratulations received by my parents upon my entrance to the world) to more recent times.  What they have in common is that either I, or my correspondents, thought that I might want to read them again. When? Well… now.

And it is now, even now, that their value is realized.  For they are a different kind of memory. A memory that demands an assessment of continuity.  How am I similar to that boy of 8? That teen?  That man of 29?  Who was I … that still exists?

In the reading, there are certain truths of my identity.  How I became the me that I am now.

We measure the quality of sheets, by a thread count. For keeping the thread… counts.

Earlier in this blog, I published a non-fiction piece called “Bodyguarding Paul.” Here is a fictional account of the same story, written as an assignment in my writing class.

The campaign was not going smoothly.  The outcome, an increasingly dim prospect as George McGovern’s 1972 Presidential race entered its final stretch run. Joyce Hanrahan, the 36-year-old divorced mother of three, office manager of McGovern’s cramped yet gaudy Coventry Street campaign headquarters just off Leicester Square, let out a howl of delight.

“We’ve got Paul!”  She jumped up out of her seat, and gathered her flock of elderly and youthful volunteers, ex-pats all, for the big update. “This oughta stir the troops,” she thought.  And she’d turn out to be right.

American presidential campaigns are international affairs.  Not only are American citizens living overseas eligible to vote, but they are also eligible to contribute campaign cash to the candidate of their choice.

Often well-heeled and politically to the left, mining for political donations in European capitals had become, by 1972, a tradition and campaign necessity.  But emptying wallets did not come easily.  Campaign pros needed certain skill sets. The talent for persuasion, of course, was essential, but one also needed connections.  Turns out, Joyce was particularly strong in both departments.

Joyce Hanrahan grew up in Bel Air, California, daughter of Miles Hanrahan, the vaunted film noir screenwriter, and Charlene Sizemore Hanrahan, a cinematic make-up artist. Charlene became infamously powerful by cultivating trusting relationships with a set of stars, including Jane Mansfield, Ginger Rogers, and, as providence would have it for her daughter’s political life, Joanne Woodward.  Their movie contracts stipulated that Charlene must be on set or they would not.

Joyce had been fixated on a campaign concept since June, right after McGovern had all but secured the nomination. She would hold a major fundraising event in London and try to draw on her Hollywood connections to make it soar.  Sure, it would be a vehicle to haul in cash, but it would also be a chance for real fun. Joyce liked real fun.

“Look you guys,” Joyce slowly started speaking. It was almost in a whisper to her small but eager group of campaign volunteers.  “Our October 9th ‘Gala for McGovern’ is now really shaping up.  I just got off the phone with his scheduling agent and get this: Paul Newman has committed to attend. Paul’s an amazing guy and really knows his politics.”

“And he’s also awfully cute,” interrupted Valerie Ingram, who at age 67, was trim, lively and ready to party.

“Yes, indeed he is, Val!” Joyce laughed with a cathartic release, as she continued with her spiel. “I think we now have the star power to pull this thing off.  But it will have to be a full team effort here at HQ.  I’m going to ask each of you to tell me how much time you can commit in the next six weeks.  I want you to go home today, talk to your family, and then come back and let me know the dates and hours you can provide us.”

For 17-year-old Dan Farber, this was just the kind of useful excitement he sought.  His dawning political awareness was recently spawned by an enmity toward President Nixon and passionate support for McGovern’s anti-Vietnam War position. Volunteering at campaign headquarters also got him out of the two-bedroom flat he shared with his father, a social work professor on sabbatical, and his mother, with whom he was in full teen rebellion mode.

The “Gala for McGovern” was to take place in the corner of a convention complex under the arches of Charing Cross Railway Station in Central London. Joyce had compiled a list of stars (her mom called them “bankables”) and up-and-comers whom she thought could draw a throng.  It was hard work to get the first few notables to commit, but once some of the pretty folks were on board, others would want to be seen with those who are seen. 

She knew Paul Newman would be a big kahuna, but as it turned out, his appearance would come with a price. He was obsessed to connect with the author Kurt Vonnegut. Joyce knew Vonnegut’s agent Charlie Steinmetz since they had been lovers at USC in the late 50s. She also heard that Vonnegut had been staying in London for the last three months doing research for another war novel (and according to Charlie, shtupping a gal pal he had met while strolling Hampstead Heath). Newman told Charlie that he loved the movie “Slaughterhouse Five” and wanted Vonnegut to release the film rights to him for “Cat’s Cradle.” Joyce promised Charlie that the Newman-Vonnegut meeting could occur at the Gala, and in addition to negotiating rights, they could appear jointly to help the presidential ticket.

Charlie told Joyce that he’d certainly ask his client to think about it and then get back to her with an answer. But in fact, Vonnegut never did make that commitment.  This info, she kept to herself. And as the Gala date approached, and the publicity materials went out, Joyce made sure that Newman and Vonnegut got twin top billing.

Dan enjoyed his weekly Friday morning Northern Line tube run from Belsize Park to Leicester Square to hang with Joyce. Emerging from the long escalator to street level, he’d pass the seedy strip clubs, curry houses and travel agencies promising warm white sandy beaches on winter days to pasty-faced Brits. Walking through the bell-clinging front door, he’d arrive at HQ, excited to hear the latest campaign gossip. The actual work was rote. Mostly stuffing envelopes, sorting correspondence and cobbling together various task lists for other campaign volunteers. But the lure and highlights were listening to chain-smoking Joyce tell stories about parties with celebrities, and men who’d done her wrong. Once too often, his nagging about Joyce’s foul Gauloises habit got under her skin. “Those cigarettes will kill you faster than Tricky Dick at the Cambodian border,” Dan pestered.

To which Joyce responded, “One more word about that, and you can catch the tube north today and don’t bother coming back.”

On the morning of the Gala, the McGovern team loaded up party supplies and equipment and headed off to Charing Cross Station. Sprucing up the multi-story congregate space under that rail center was a frenetic pleasure. Joyce ran around directing her volunteers to affix brightly colored banners and ribbons throughout the various rooms and alcoves.  Klieg lights were brought in by video crews to highlight stages and stairs. HQ volunteers were all given white t-shirts with “McGovern 1972” stenciled in bright red and blue campaign font lettering.

Dan was assigned the task of first setting up, and then manning, the “game room.”  Intended to preoccupy the teens, or perhaps provide for some a more intimate respite from the larger, socially central auditorium, the game room was a dimly lit, 10’ x 12’ space practically hidden under the main stairwell. Ever eager to help, the game room chore was for Dan, an unexpected let down.

……

Gina Samuels, Sarah’s mom, was an experienced and savvy political animal, stemming from her days of rage and justice as a leader in UC Berkeley’s Free Speech Movement. When Mario Savio summoned his wits to risk and rise on the steps of Sproul Plaza, it was from Gina’s talking points he read. Personally shy, yet intellectually bold, Gina knew political strategy.   Years later, when Mario was reminiscing with others in his FSM leadership cadre about how the movement exploded onto the scene, he asserted that without Gina’s tactical sophistication, they most certainly would have failed.

Twelve-year-old Sarah knew only the faintest outline of her mom’s earlier heroics.  Gina ended up marrying Gary Samuels, a Londoner and fellow grad student in UC’s Philosophy Department. (Gina specialized in Kantian ethics and Gary in epistemology. Their ongoing and whimsical intellectual spats became legendary entertainment for friends and relatives.)  They moved to England immediately after graduating from UC Berkeley, and settled into a life of academic bliss, she at the London School of Economics and he at the University of London. Sarah, dark-haired and vibrant, was the social and emotional opposite of her mom: unquenchably gregarious.

“Momela, can we please go to the Gala for McGovern next Saturday?” she pleaded.  She knew this wasn’t really Gina’s thing, but she also knew her mum was a sucker for anything that even faintly projected a social conscience upon her only daughter.

“Well… sure, lovey.  Your poppa and I haven’t been out for a while and it could be …”

“Uh… um… well, Momela, I was thinking more about just going with my friends. No offense, but it would kind of be a drag to go with you guys. I’ve already asked Silvia and Shirley, and their mums said it would be ok if the three of us go together on our own.  I promise we’ll be back before 21:30.” 

Gina relented and Sarah was ecstatic.

“I know… I know… Paul Newman is going to be there,” Sarah squealed on the phone to Silvia. “This is going to be SO COOL.  What are you going to wear?  I’m thinking teal.  But maybe yellow would be louder. We should plan this with Shirley so that we stick out like a team.”

The girls arrived early, just as the doors opened at 17:30.  They were pumped.  “Where’s Paul?”, Silvia asked Rene, a bright-eyed 21-year-old McGovern volunteer, who was racing around purposefully putting finishing touches on the décor.

“Paul Newman?” Rene replied. “Oh… I don’t know sweetie.  Not sure he’s here yet.”

The three girls’ anticipation only grew, as they quickly ran around the gala spaces, trying to get their lay of the land.  Asking any t-shirted McGovern staffer they saw the same question; they received the same answer.  “He’ll be here soon enough.  You’ll know it when he arrives.”

As the evening progressed, Joyce could be seen running around too, feverishly announcing the arrival of the famous and near famous.  “Lee Remick” she’d shriek. “Ava Gardner, Nicol Williamson,” she gushed.

Rumors began to buzz that Paul Newman had made it to the event and would be speaking from the upper balcony.  Dan decided to leave his lonely post by the “Count the Jellybeans” game, to see if he could get a look at Paul. He snuck deftly up the rear stairwell. 

 Just as he got to the top of the stairs, Jerry Seacrest, Joyce’s brother-in-law whom she had drafted to help at the event, spotted Dan and his wiry 160lb, 6’4” frame. Likewise wearing the official McGovern t-shirt, Jerry motioned for Dan to approach. 

 “Paul is going to come out of that door to the right,” Jerry whispered. “Stand in front of the door, and when it opens, I want you to walk in front of Mr. Newman to clear the way for him to address the crowd. Over there, on top of the balcony. Can you do that?”

 “Sure,” Dan responded with a serious look on his face.  “I can do that,” and proceeded to station himself in front of the doorway. 

The room was getting more and more filled with a mass of excited, slightly boozed humanity.  Word got out to Sarah and her crew as to the location of Mr. Newman’s entry.  “Come on, girls, let’s go for it,” she encouraged as they wriggled and squirmed their way to the door where Dan stood sentry.

“Please, please, please let us in,” they squealed.  “We want to see, Paul.  Can you at least take this paper and get us his autograph?”

“I can’t do that,” Dan commanded in his deepest and most imperious voice. “But I’m going to touch him soon.  I’ll give you my autograph.”

They fell for it.  And for the next couple of minutes, Dan was signing autographs for 12-year-old girls who were thrilled to have them. 

But on the other side of the door, Paul was not a happy camper.  “Are you frigging kidding me?!” he screamed at a sheepish Charlie Steinmetz.  “I was assured that Kurt would be here! You think I’d be here if I knew that Vonnegut would cut out at the last minute?!!”

Charlie had an incensed celeb on his hands and was pretty sure the truth was no ally. “Paul, I understand your disappointment, and we’ll try to arrange an opportunity for you two to get together just as soon as we are able. But Kurt was unavoidably called out just this morning to deal with a critical family emergency in Amsterdam. It just couldn’t be helped.”

Charlie was bald-faced lying here, and Newman had his suspicions. But Charlie also was sure that the family-oriented actor would not challenge the values inherent in the excuse.  Besides, just because Vonnegut said that there was no way on God’s green Earth he’d let some pretty boy play Jonah, or for that matter Bokonon, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t relent later after a few drinks and some wooing by the blue-eyed actor and race car driver.

Newman steadied himself.  The show must go on. It always went on.

The door opened and Dan didn’t look back.  He just felt an electric presence behind him.

 “Make way,” he intoned, as Dan spread his arms and led Paul up a few stairs and over to a point of prominence. From there, the two drew even as Newman began his address to the assembled admirers.

 “My goodness, that man’s eyes were blue!” Dan thought in amazement.  Posture erect, yet also somehow soft and relaxed, the actor held a coffee cup in his left hand, as Dan stood beside him, about one foot away to his left.

Paul Newman spoke about peace and justice and Nixonian horrors.  Dan marveled at his calmness, his graceful motions, his famous smile, and the palpable glow that emanated from his face. As Newman finished his oration, he turned to Dan and said, “Let me be with the people.”

Just as Paul spun around to greet his admirers, with Joyce audibly calling out his name as she went in for a hug, Dan’s right upper arm “accidentally” brushed Paul’s right shoulder.

 After all, he had promised the 12-year-olds!

Joining a Zone

Vaxxed, boosted and haven’t been to a gym in nearly two years. At a certain point, a 66-year-old has to gauge the odds.  What is the greater danger?  Exposure to COVID from the errant spray of fellow fitness freaks, or utter failure, for a seemingly unending time, to truly get aerobic and muscle toning workouts on a regular basis?

Sure, I hear you snicker. “Why doesn’t he just buy equipment for the home?” or “Can’t he jog to the park or follow those Sliver and Fit videos daily?”

Answer:  I’m a failure at such discipline.

There.  Got your pound of flesh?  Or in my case, about fifteen pounds of flesh.  Snicker away, but for me this question of sloth drags me down and out. 

Heckling, with all loving intentions, but heckling nonetheless, from my wife Jean – or should it be called “encouragement”? – had me finally check out a free (for Medicare recipients) gym in town.  It is West Olympia’s Planet Fitness, one of over 2000 sites where that company has located its outlets.

Initial impressions of the place are positive for COVID.  Wait. Cross that out.  I mean positive for its attention to COVID health protocols – mask-wearing, sanitation centers, distancing between members and equipment, and verbal reminders over the intercom to follow those protocols. So, I join, and make an orientation appointment with the site’s fitness pro.

Two days later we are facing each other across a table, developing my new regimen. As he talks, his mask sags below his nose. He does not readjust. Midway through development of my workout routine, he also mentions “You know, you don’t really have to wear your mask over your nose, just your mouth.” I am feeling disappointed and on edge about his statement, but I don’t say a word about it.

The Misfit Begins

The next day my “regular” workouts commence.  Getting dressed in the locker room, some men are wearing masks, others not.  Walking out onto the main workout room, everyone has a mask on in one way or the other.  Three formulations of “wearing” can be observed.  Most have properly fitted masks over both their mouths and nose.  Some go for the “mouth only” approach.  And still others find that protection of their chins is paramount and have decided that interfering with either of their breathing apparatuses would be harmful to the work out.

I take all this in, mulling and sorting, as I climb aboard the elliptical machine for 20 minutes.  I have not brought my cell phone and earbuds for an opportunity to focus on anything other than my surroundings.  Taking in the visual stimuli is all I’ll have to work with.

When one has little but one’s mind for companionship, well then, stuff gets telling quickly. Out flows your biases, predilections, and confused musings.  Here spills an example of both psychological mayhem and a semblance of who you are as a person.  Well, at least the inner life of your bored mind.

Pick the machine close to CNN.  Oh, FOX news is next to CNN.  And look, no MSNBC and there are twice as many FOX screens as CNN.  Got it. Political bias. Pisses me off.  Vast majority of customers completely ignoring screens.  But the corporate tilt is apparent.

Starting up machine, when will the “go” sign light up… there, it did it. Good. Now increase the resistance up and the incline. Yes. That’s good for a start.

Stream of Elliptical Conscious Nonsense

Improve your posture, Daniel.  Stretch back and lift neck… there.  That’s good.

Read signs on the wall. “Planet Fitness = No Criticism,” “You Belong,” and the most dominant one  of all “Judgement Free Zone.” Geez, “Judgement Free Zone” has been written on virtually every machine in the place.  Judgement Free Zone.  Judgement Free Zone.  They have misspelled judgment and the damn sign is the theme of this corporation:

Welcome to Planet Fitness. The Judgement Free Zone®

Spelling “judgment” with an extra “e” is wrong.  It feels right.  But it’s wrong.  I’ve looked it up before.  The extra “e” is appropriate sometimes in the UK, but not America.  What kind of corporate culture would permit the main theme to be misspelled?  Could you imagine someone – some big personality boss – coming up with the theme.  Doesn’t ANYONE in the echelons of a corporation with 2000 locations bother to do spell check?  And if they did, were they too chicken to mention it.  Or if they were not too chicken to mention it, would they have been batted down.  Ridiculed as nerdy. Had the judgement with an extra “e” already become the corporate theme?

But how many people would know that in America an extra “e” is “wrong?” 10%? 5%? And how many who know it, would care? At all?  What’s wrong with me that has me obsessing over this?

Look. Over there.  Those three young guys, with chin-straps for masks. They are laughing. They’ve got pretty good muscles. Don’t they frigging care – seemingly – about COVID?  Are they Trumpsters? Or just apolitical?  Do they read? Do they care about the frigging extra “e” in judgment?

Which is why, of course, we liberals are losing.  Egad! Who could stand the judgmentalism that I am displaying inside my brain as I’m doing this stupid elliptical?  Do those three guys – who can outvote me three to one if they bother to vote – know that an old man on an elliptical is thinking about them and being highly judgmental in front of a sign that says, “Judgement Free Zone?”

But COVID is real and real dangerous.  Do I have a duty to go over there and ask them to put on masks?  Do I go to the Planet Fitness staff and ask them to enforce proper mask-wearing? Even as I look at them, only half of the staff have masks over both orifices.

And then there was the stop at the health food shop before the workout to pick up some lactase.  As I go to the counter, other customers are wearing no masks at all.  This, even in a state which requires indoor masking while shopping and even in a frigging store whose purpose is to advance health.

CNN is talking about the omicron variant. Bummer. Why does the Fox News chyron say “Crime Up in Democrat Cities and they don’t Care?” Exhausting.

Why is that guy to my left talking on his cell phone with his mask down? A few feet away from the sign that says “cell phone calls only in the lobby.”

But ya know… I do seem to be sweating nicely. That’s good. Pretty far from other exercisers. Good too. I like the easy adjustability of the elliptical settings. The shopping channel next to FOX has a highly silly sweatshirt they are selling.  It’s so wonderful that my heart is sound, almost three years after the mitral valve surgery. I wish I brought a larger towel to wipe off my brow.

Judgement Free Zone indeed!

Toward the end of her life, my mother partnered with a man named Max.  The intimate relationship only lasted about a year because Mom was cascading downhill with Alzheimer’s.  But our family liked Max a lot and even after Mom died, we stayed in touch with him. 

When Max died, his daughter asked me to perform the hosting function for his memorial service.  Max was an atheist, but also a proud Jew and active Yiddishist.  I agreed to do the hosting and led about 50 people in a principally secular service. But I did ask if it was ok to include the Mourner’s Kaddish, a Jewish prayer that is said when remembering the dead.  The family agreed to that.

After the memorial, an older woman came up to me and said, “thank you for leading this event, I haven’t been to anything like this in a long … long time.” 

I replied, “you are most welcome.”

But then she didn’t walk away.  She just kind of quietly, nervously, stayed next to me. It felt like she wanted to say something more, so I stayed quiet.

“Yes…. I hadn’t thought about…” her voice trailed off.  “Well, when you did that prayer… you know…. I was once….” 

She couldn’t finish her sentences.  I then asked, “are you Jewish?  Your accent sounds German.”

The woman was silent for a bit, but then replied, “when I was a girl, I was from a German Jewish family. During the war, we went to Amsterdam.”

“Oh,” I said, “that must have been an extraordinarily difficult time for you.”  Again, she paused for a moment in what seemed like she was preparing herself for something emotional to say. 

“I have never told anyone about this. Never.  But after the service today, I will tell you.”

I stood next to this older woman – later finding out she was 86 at the time – prepared to hear about the Holocaust.  I was not prepared to hear what came out of her mouth next. 

“I was best friends in Germany with Anne Frank. This was before her family went to Amsterdam and before mine did too.  We didn’t know each other in Amsterdam, but after the war and when her book became famous is when I found out about what happened to her.”

Upon hearing that, I was stunned.  And a little disbelieving.  That’s when I asked her age. She also told me that she didn’t want to admit to anyone after the war that she was Jewish. Her parents were killed.  She was raised by others – non-Jews. Eventually she came to America and didn’t want her past to define her future.  But finally, as an old woman, she felt safe enough in Seattle, at Max’s memorial, to tell someone, a stranger, about her childhood secret 80 years later.

I thanked her for sharing that information with me and we said goodbye.

For the last two years, I have been taking a writing class, and that class is now over as of last week. What a wonderful way to transition into retirement. I will miss it, yet there is not a cold turkey ending per se. We will continue in a “master class” mode for another 6 months or so, and there are quite specific writing projects I have in mind that will keep me busy for a couple of years more.

Meanwhile, I’m going to post below the results of a silly class assignment. We were told to write five poems quickly. Very quickly – about 5 minutes writing time for each one. The structure for the assignment was to pump out metaphors around the topic “I am….” And away we go!

Numero Uno

I am the beast unknown but curious

I am the shelter from falling branches

I am the potato in the soup

I am the salad on the side

I am the sir without the loin

I am the best amongst the fallen throng

I am the worst amongst the hopeless racers

I am the last dish in the buffet.

Numero Dos

I am solid like plasma

I am liquid like gold

I am frequently timid while deliberately bold

I am a racehorse for the masses

A disappointment to the rich

I am asparagus, ling cod…

Belgian endive?

Still searching for my niche.

Numero Tres

I am a louse, but lice would be nice.

I am a soldier, but an army would be bolder.

I am a ciggy, but a pack would be biggie.

I am a setter, but the pound would bark better.

I am a tour car, but a convoy would drive her more far

I am a setting sun, but a shining moon would give him more fun

I am a sluggish, roguish, selfish shaman

I am a salty, pungent, slippery bowl, of 40 cents a package, Sapporo Ichiban Original Ramen.

Numero Cuatro

I am like a hermit crab

I am like a sponge

I am like a snowy plover

I am Bach to Grunge

I am like a Solzhenitsyn before he got all nutty

I am like the Andrew Sisters before they got all slutty

I am like my dog, you see, before he learned to beg

I am like my mom or pop, just longer in the leg.

I am like myself it seems, more frequently than not

I am like myself, oh my, a slender, drunken sot.

Numero Cinco

I am Wonder Woman in a caftan

I am Wonder Bread with a crispy crust

I am a cedar forest on the Great Plains

I am a Sitka Spruce lost in lust

I am a soldier on a game show

I am a game show host at war

And if momma saw me, she would say

You are nothing like me at all.

Bill Russell regularly threw up from nervousness before playing Celtics basketball at the Boston Garden. He said he knew it was time to hang up his size-18 court shoes when he no longer barfed before games. Apparently, he needed that anxious “edge.”

Later, when coaching the Seattle Supersonics, Russell had a regular opinion column in The Seattle Times.  He once wrote about his writing process, describing the blank page affixed to his typewriter as the most frightening challenge of his life.

Writing can do that. For sure. Writing can be scary. Daunting. Mysterious.  Writing can flummox and disturb.

So why write?

When we acquire language, we expand our understanding of the world.  The more precise the usage, the greater the clarity.  It is intrinsically human, this yearning for language. Language brings meaning.  We use language to order our world. Writing advantages the civilization project.

We write to give life meaning. We also write to delight. We play, amuse, and inform ourselves by writing. We are often surprised, even amazed and awed by what emerges from our fingers.  Where did that come from, we ask ourselves? We are blind to our insights, until we write them down out of apparent nothingness.

So why share our writing with others?

Writing is, of course, an imperfect communication tool. Lots of reasons for that. Surely though, we share our writings on the lucky chance that, from time to time, we might feel a little less alone in this short, fabulous moment that we call our lives. No barfing required.

I do not dwell in the irrational fears of childhood. With one exception.

Jerry, our virile, wild-eyed camp counselor paced menacingly around the evening’s pyre. We ten-year-old boys and girls, circled around, sat on logs, seduced by the flame’s intense heat and smokey smell. On that cold evening, we laughed and shook, as Jerry told the completely true story of… “The Red Aunts.”

He spread it out; 15 minutes that felt like 30. His voice at the end, a deafening screech.

Here, I’ll make it quick. 

The boy had a headache. He scratched but nothing would relieve the itch.  Finally, he scratched so hard, that he ripped his head open and out swarmed hundreds of red ants. The end.

The girls mostly screamed. The boys mostly laughed. We were 10 and 11. That’s what you do.

Fast forward 55 years. Jean calls me into our brand-new living room. “Daniel, we have ants crawling all over. Do something!” So, I place a box of “Terro” ant and roach remover by the prime infestation. It works by appealing to ants’ appetites. They consume the poison, share it with their brethren, and presto, everyone dies in the walls of your home.

Result:  the next morning, no ants.  Only downside?  For some reason, my head feels itchy.

In our writing class, we were assigned the task of writing the same scene or story from different perspectives or writing styles. Higginson Hall’s game room became my primary source of desire, diversion and triumph during that first failure of a quarter, my freshman year at Western Washington State College. Here’s the same story… two approaches.

Unprepared: Wooing Geena and Confronting Big Rick

The object of my desire was my combatant Geena, the Elvis-loving, vision of languid sensuality, strolling with serene concentration around the billiards table.  Soon, her shoulder-blade length straight blonde locks fell softly upon the table’s verdant felt field of battle as she extended her right leg from the floor on tippy toes, raised her left leg horizontal to her lean torso, and stretched to make what I always relished, her deft cross-table touch shot. I was further rewarded with a brief smile as she dropped the right ball into the chosen hole.  Could I win by losing occasionally, keeping her spirits up and defenses down? This is what passed for my grand strategy!

Big Rick, the 22-yo African American Residence Hall Assistant, was almost as tall as I, but 100 pounds heavier. His studio apartment, adjacent to the game room, brought him in sight of my ping pong predations. 

“I bet you a six-pack I can beat you twenty games in row,” I bragged.

“You’re on, my boy.” Big Rick chuckled and bellowed vibrations of deep resonance.

I proceeded to beat Big Rick 20 games in a row.  “Time to pay up, Big Rick!”

“That’s not going to happen,” was his immediate and confident reply.

“What do you mean not going to happen? We had a bet. A deal.  You have to.”

We went back and forth a few times.  I was indignant.  Big Rick’s patience was wearing thin.

“Come with me to my apartment,” as he led me across the game room to his bedroom.  Big Rick lifted his mattress, pulled out a gun and aimed it at me.  “We’re done here, now, aren’t we?”

“Yes sir. We are.” I turned tail and left, never to speak of a six-pack at Higginson again.

Unprepared: College Life

Entering Western Washington State College directly from high school, I quit after one quarter. My 2.02 GPA belied a deeper reality.  I had no idea where I was going, who I was, and what I wanted.  And my D in French was undeserved. I should have flunked.

In the long march to maturity, Western was where reality forced confrontation with self.  Just how far did I still need to travel to arrive at a tentative sense of competent adulthood?

Higginson Hall, my first residence away from home, my first painful dabbling in independence, proved a great site for bubbling failure.

I, lusting after Geena around the billiards table, couldn’t pull the trigger and act upon that yearning.  Unasked, she was likely clueless to my fantasies.

I, underaged and supremely innocent, confidently wagered with Big Rick, our dorm residence assistant, for a six-pack of beer.  This 18-yo Jewish suburbanite handily beat that 22-yo African American from Seattle’s Central Area on our ping pong bet, only to find that he who has the gun, sets the rules.

And what does one need to settle down, focus, and accomplish anything in this glorious life of self-professed value?  All the stuff that I lacked at the time. Purpose. Discipline. A modicum of judgment earned from both experiences and some strange alchemy of interpretation of those experiences that produces proximations of wisdom.

Let’s call it preparation.