You know you’re in the second half of your life when you need to say good-bye to two friends in two weeks. It’s also because you’re in a large singles’ club, one you’ve been a member of for fifteen years.
The first service was for a guy who was usually grumpy. Some called him a complainer. But when his three grandsons spoke of him, each one crying at some point in their speeches, I realized that there was much more to Fred than I’d known. He’d been a father figure to them. They’d been invited to leave Texas to come to California and move in with him.
There was a good turn-out that day. I was happy to see all the singles’ club people who showed up for Fred. Friends from his fire department came, too. A girlfriend said that her mother had told her years before, “It’s okay to miss a birthday party or a holiday party, but always show up for a memorial service. That’s when people need you the most.”
There was an open mic that day, where anyone could get up and speak. I had a funny story to tell but chickened out. Fred and I had walked into a TGIF together, set our things down on adjoining bar stools, and he’d gone off to talk with one group of people while I went off to another group. When it was time to pay my bar tab, the bartender pointed to Fred and said that he’d put my two glasses of wine on his bill. “I thought you two were married,” he said, “since you were ignoring each other.” After that, Fred called me wifey, and I called him hubby every time we met.
The second service was today, and our dear friend lost his fight with a brain tumor. His daughter and son were there with their spouses and children, overwhelmed by the number of people who came to say good-bye to their dad. Eight of us went in together on flowers to replant in their yards. No one else brought flowers, so I was glad we did that. I wanted to buy them a tree (a maple from Costco), but it was just too heavy to deal with, so the tree will end up in my yard, I guess.
I didn’t speak at today’s event either. I wanted to tell the story of how Marc had taken my phone from me one Friday night when I was on my way to meet a guy in Walnut Creek for a late date. He was a TV producer and had to work until 9:00. We’d met at a dance at the Claremont the week before. Marc programmed his number into my flip phone and said to call him if I needed anything at all.
“Okay, Dad!” I said.
After that, he called me Daughter for the next twelve years. I called him and his girlfriend Mom and Dad, even though she was younger than me. She was a good sport about it, and it was our little thing that we did. Now they’re both gone, her, taken two years before from cancer.
Life is short, and it is becoming more and more apparent that every day needs to count for something, whatever that means to you, not the same as what it means to me. Singing in my chorus, dancing with my friends, connecting with my adult children and grandchild, these are things that are important to me, and I will hopefully do them for many more years.
But one never knows how much longer they have.
No one does.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 