Resurrection
In memoriam: a gathering of friends?
Proposal
It was with eyes averted that I mustered my nerve to address the mourners at Jim’s funeral, in June 2019. I could have joked about how mercilessly I pestered poor Jim for help on the job — but rather than squander my courage attempting humor, I got right to my point.
I’m oft taken for a fearless fool, though I’m far from fearless in my foolery. Belting tunes at top voice, whirling dervish-ly on the dance floor — enthusiasm compensating for dearth of talent — spectators marvel at my self-confidence.
In truth, I’m self-conscious to the extreme. I dare to make a spectacle of myself by pretending to be performing in solitary confinement — specifically, in a sound-proofed bunker without windows — to which end I avoid eye-contact with the audience.
It was discomfiting to speak in front of two dozen people, half of whom I’d never met, the other half of whom I saw for two hours twice yearly. More disconcerting was the prospect of my proposal being construed as morbid and/or presumptuous.
Agonizing over how and when to jump up and take the floor, I was too distracted to appreciate the amusing anecdotes shared by Jim’s friends. When Ken concluded with how much he was going to miss Jim’s pair of annual parties, I took that as my cue.
With eyes safely shuttered, I speed-stuttered my piece: “Segue to regretting the end of an era I’d be honored to host New Year’s Day in Jim’s memory if you are interested please see me thanks.” I scurried to my seat.
After two more guests said their pieces, the funeral director thanked us for coming, and the group began to disperse.
I stood awkwardly, the evening’s programme in hand as if it were an old-time dance card, wondering if anyone would sign up.
Accepted!
Hallelujah! Every one of my “familiars” — co-guests at Jim’s for 20 years running — signed up as soon as the service was concluded.
Chris and Ken approached. Then Keith and Diane. Dave and Marie. Victoria and Joe. David and Nancy. James. Every one of my eleven biannual companions scrambled to join the “MeToo” contingent.
I reprised — a tad more articulately — the spiel that I’d mumbled, jumbled under speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-”piece” pressure. Again, I worded my offer such that it would be construed as a one-time memorial event.
I was loath to come across as having the hubris to assume Jim’s mantle in perpetuity. They were his friends — to me, they are accidental acquaintances, although of 20 years’ standing. No need to broach the subject of April’s event until we gathered for New Year’s Day 2020 to reminisce.
Still, I wondered. Would they sign on for April? Even if so, would they return for New Year’s Day of 2021, after an eight-and-a-half-month hiatus?
As to the fate of Jim’s legacy: Would the gathering seem strained without Jim to bind us? Will homage be perverted into sacrilege?
I dared to hope in the resurrection. Of Jim in spirit; of us twelve in the flesh, all risen in toast to his friendship, and to our own.
Taking the plunge
Five months thereafter, in November 2019, I emailed a non-committal invitation of sorts to the twenty-something people on Jim’s party list who had rarely attended, requesting that they opt in if they wished to be kept informed of “memorial events.” I was vague by intent — I wasn’t about to blindly invite the lot to my party.
I cc’d the regulars by way of a reminder to re-enlist.
I got five replies over the next few days; two were from women I didn’t know, whom I duly added to the official invitation that would go out in December. The other three came from couples amongst the group I’d expected to hear from.
The other half of that contingent failed to respond to my “heads-up to re-up.” This was disconcerting in light of the unanimous enthusiasm after the funeral — in consideration of which I retained their names on the invitation list. Nonetheless, I was miffed that they didn’t bother to “second their emotion.”
On December first, I emailed the invitation, requesting a reply by Christmas. The two women I’d never met promptly sent regrets. As to my people: David-and-Nancy phoned that evening to accept; Keith-and-Diane emailed a somewhat shaky “hope to attend.”
In limbo: December 29, 2019
Christmas beheld a silent night. The silence continues as I write this, three days before the uneventful event-to-be — or not to be? I am shaken by the silence, the silence that speaks the truth I cannot bear to hear.
A double truth — when I’d so much prefer a half-truth, such as: Sucks to miss out, but we can’t make it, maybe next time …
Rather than: No offense (ha!) Liz, but frankly, your company doesn’t quite make the cut, you being merely an accidental acquaintance on account of Jim, speaking of whom— No offense, Jim, but, after all, we did go to your funeral back when (when?) and by now you’ve been dead for (how?) many months, so … been there, done that — enough is enough …
Enough? Are four guests enough for a party? It is for me — if even one person joins me to honor Jim, we’ll do it. So yes, a party of four will suffice, though I dare not share the paltry tally with the two couples who accepted, lest they take it as a cue to back out — in which (non)event I’d be toasting Jim solo.
Whether one-way or five-way — toast Jim I will.
Party of Eight!
Nine, including me. Victoria had called the day prior, apologizing profusely for the late notice. Her husband, Joe, had assumed that she’d also received — and replied to — my emailed invitation. Another couple came whom I hadn’t heard from — Ken and Chris, being regulars at Jim’s parties, had assumed that their attendance would likewise have been assumed.
Having at last dispensed with our assorted sorry assumptions, our company of nine raised its collective cup in triumphant toast to Jim, our “ghost of honor.”
Reflecting
The late Jim was an extremely private person: friend to all, but close to none, by his choice. He was greatly loved nonetheless — and not only for his famous semi-annual parties.
Every year, on the third Monday in April, Jim, a ten-time finisher of the Boston Marathon, hosted a party in dual celebration of that event and “Patriots’ Day,” a Massachusetts (and Maine) holiday commemorating three battles commencing the American Revolution.
As it happened, in March of 2020, Corona quashed party plans even before I’d commenced them. The world remained in suspension through most of 2021.
Perhaps I could have organized a New Year’s Day party for this year — certainly a Patriots’ Day party — but I confess to having lost momentum during the enforced two-year hiatus.
I wrote a play of sorts featuring the voices of two of the mourners mentioned above — plus my own — as well as Jim’s. Coming soon to a theater near you!