Eulogy

My friend has asked me to write his obit. He is my age and he’s not even sick. But he doesn’t want to miss out in case of his untimely demise as if he’d be late for his own funeral. I shouldn’t say obit; it’s more like a eulogy. Why do we save our best words till it’s too late? In a perfect world there would be a rehearsal.

So, I did. I wrote it and he said he loved it which shows he is too easy to please or too forgiving. I cannot bring myself to speak of him in the past tense. Stan is my oldest friend whom I regard as a near-brother even though we’ve seen little of each other since 1950, living on separate coasts. The Atlantic is gigantic and the Pacific is terrific but they haven’t washed away the bond forged long ago.

We met in kindergarten. Maybe I was a wardrobe monitor and he had the same brand of galoshes. Or perhaps we built a city together with blocks. I could say anything but Stanley would call me on it. We are each other’s fact-check. Though facts are no longer an operative word. Versions are more apt. Those awful wonderful humiliating exuberant moments are seen with kaleidoscopic eyes. Memories have long ago lost verisimilitude. They’ve become endearing moments in the blockbuster film of our lives with episodes so unlikely they must be true.

Growing up was clumsy. We followed odd-looking people for blocks at a time until it dawned on us that we were the odd ones. Stan reminds me how we preferred slices of bologna to candy like normal kids. Somehow life was sweet enough as evidenced by multiple cavities even as we discovered it was also full of baloney.

Stan’s professional life as a biochemist was notable in spite of our misspent youth. I will leave that for others more familiar with his contributions.

We weren’t very fluent in the language of flirting but we counted ourselves among the politically righteous and were ardent in pursuit of careers on the basketball court. One winter day, with temperatures below zero, we climbed the chain link fence with a snow shovel in tow into our school yard. We cleared the area around the basket to perfect our jump shots. All right, it was actually in the low thirties but it felt below zero with the wind chill.

Nobody is second banana in the movie of their life even though there were few heroics, no dragons slain, double-agents, rafts down the Mississippi or near-death experiences. We were, however, possibly first among our peers to get stoned at a concert. The event was Paul Robeson at Peekskill in 1949 and the stones were thrown by a crazed mob through the window as we took cover on the floor of the bus among broken glass. These were likely the grandparents of Q-Anon folks who are now merely following in their family tradition.

Stan and I went on a ten-day bike trip through five states in New England that same summer or was it the next? We must not have budgeted well since I recall splitting a Clark bar for dinner one night. We stayed at youth hostels or in barns. Unaware that Newport R.I. was above our pay grade we bought box seats overlooking the stage for a play on opening night, dressed in T-shirts.

We have albums of stories in our heads which get embellished like polished stones in each telling. The kinship between us has survived the decades, testimony to our shared values and a genuine affection. Could it be we instinctively knew that eighty-five years ago? All that has followed is a reenactment of galoshes and a city of blocks, the paradise we never quite left.

All these tableaus do not convey the measure of the man. Stanley was and is a gentle soul, cultured and with undiminished smarts along with a sense of humor we must have created together. Who else would laugh at my jokes?

With perfect pitch Stan sang in a choral group while I was consigned to the back row as a listener. I have been listening closely ever since. When we are ready for our afterlife, I expect him to sing us to heaven. I’ll start harp lessons any day now.