November 12, 2006
Sunday 

The story is something of a memento mori, a reminder of death. October was hard in that regard for me. Two friends near my age died suddenly, and there was also the tragedy in Lancaster. In the last week I’ve read two published short stories that concern characters being visited by the herald of death, as well as a manuscript in draft from a friend who is working with the same theme.
                  — from a note in my paper journal

I first addressed the material I’ve been working with for NaNoWriMo in 2001. I created a character and a situation loosely based on my father and the experience he had of becoming obsessed with seeing an old friend before he and my mother went back to Florida after a visit here. Strokes had debilitated this friend, and she was blind and nearly deaf, although her mind was functioning well. Nevertheless, she declined to see anyone, sending my father her regrets through her nephew. My father was very disappointed, tried more than once to gain an audience, to no avail. He died on the trip back to Florida, and, looking back, I saw his need to see his friend as some sort of intuition that his opportunities for reconnection were dwindling fast.

My friend Michael came to me in a dream last week. This is not unusual. Random faces from my past often present themselves in both my consciousness and my dreams. Almost always these are benevolent visits from people I have always loved. Michael and I went to high school together. We shared a lot of classes, sang in the chorus, had a mutual love of music and literature. He was an aspiring writer as well, and we sometimes acted as each other’s first readers. We saw each other from time to time through our first years of college, and although he was never my boyfriend, had that opportunity presented itself I would have taken it.

By 1980 he was married and living in South Carolina. The weekend of our reunion that year I spent a lot of time with him and his wife, both at the festivities and later. As the years went on, however, contact became sporadic again. His mother’s funeral in 2002 was so crowded I couldn’t get to see him, but I signed the guest book. He called when I wasn’t home and left a message. When I returned the call I got his machine, and left my own message. This pattern happened a few more times. I always scribbled an “I’ll call soon” note on my Christmas letter, but I didn’t, nor did I write something more personal.

Yesterday I walked through a landscape from my past beloved to me but one that Michael and I never shared. I found the title for my novel — All the Old Familiar Places — and through the looping associations that constantly run through my mind, I thought of him again, and made that old familiar resolve again.

This morning I opened the newspaper to read his obituary.

He was 59 years old. He’d been a New York cabby, a boatwright, an English teacher, and a photographer. He was an environmentalist and a preservationist who loved the landscape of his adopted home. He leaves a wife (she’s an artist whom I found delightful), a brother, a niece and a nephew and their children.

I absorbed the news with a gasp. I told Ron. I sent an e-mail to another classmate (it was 7:30 in the morning, a little early for a phone call, I thought, especially one with such sad news).

And then I baked a cake.

In the recent past, one of my characters has been criticized for not displaying enough emotion when she receives bad news. (That is, I as the writer have been criticized for not writing characters who behave the way my readers think they should.) The character learns of the death of her niece and (in the words of one reader) “simply goes back to her lasagna as if nothing has happened!”

But what is she supposed to do — weep and pound the counter and let the lasagna noodles boil away to mush?

The cake was for the potluck supper after my church congregation’s annual meeting set for 4:00. It was just a Pillsbury box cake, a red velvet variety found unused from last year’s Christmas party. I greased and floured the pan (a disposable aluminum one with a cover, also left from last year’s holiday season). I measured out the water and the oil and the eggs and watched the Kitchen-Aid paddle swirl the mixture into a thick pourable batter. I preheated the oven, slid the pan in, and noted in my planner the need to clean the oven before Thanksgiving. I checked that the Cool-Whip that was going to be the frosting had thawed (we’re going for easy and edible, not Martha Stewart dazzling). Something about being able to follow the steps soothed me. The cake was done a minute before I needed to leave for Sunday school.

Through Sunday school and the 11:00 service I was okay. The people I talked to seemed all absorbed in their own concerns — somebody’s boss is being unreasonable about deadlines, somebody’s adoption will be final tomorrow. I didn’t tell anybody the concern I was carrying. They didn’t know Michael, and I felt foolish saying how upset I was about the death of someone I hadn’t bothered to keep in closer touch with.

So I moved through the elements of the service in silence. The scripture readings were about feeding strangers and not becoming proud about our generosity, especially if it is easy for us to be generous. Pastor Cathy spoke about giving, of our abundance, our material wealth, our very selves.

I listened, brought the image of Michael’s wife to my mind during the prayers of the people, breathed. And I was okay, until, during the distribution of communion, we sang “Kumbaya.”

At Bishop McDevitt High School during the 1960s there was Mass in the auditorium, attended by everyone, nearly every Friday. “Kumbaya” was enjoying the height of its popularity then, and we — Michael and I and all of the others — probably sang it together every week. I think we even did a concert version in chorus.

Someone’s cryin’ Lord, kumbaya.

And I was.

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