The Death Diaries: Autobiography through Loss
THE DEATH DIARIES: AUTOBIOGRAPHY THROUGH LOSS
(Note: This series was originally started on Facebook in 2022)
Introduction:
At some point during the pandemic, I started thinking about those I have lost over the course of my life. I’m about to hit the half century mark myself, so I’ve made a lot of friends over the years, as I've been involved in extensive various networks. Which means I’ve also lost a number of folks. For whatever reason, I started compiling a list.
Damn if it ain’t long.
You all know how much I love to write, but I know my posts are often overtly (and overly) political in nature, which surely turns some people off. I’ve lately pondered penning an autobiography, as I feel like the totality of my life experiences are truly quite unique. But that seems like a tall task right now, especially since I don’t have a large dedicated audience, and I’m not sure where it would land.
In the meantime, another project I’ve wanted to undertake is to memorialize those I’ve lost over the years—as there are really quite a few of them. I don’t know how often I will post—probably just whenever the spirit moves me. But, there are now SO many entries to be made, and friends and family continue to drop like flies, so this might be an expedited effort—as I occasionally feel I’m in a race against time myself. So, without further ado, I give you:
The Death Diaries
Entry #1 - The Reverend Charles Morris Hawes (1938-2022)
The world lost a giant today. Like, a REAL giant. Charlie was to the priesthood what Bernie Sanders has similarly been in the political world—a genuinely compassionate and caring human who spoke truth to power throughout his life. As one friend posted today, Charlie was “the best sort of meddlesome priest!” Truer words were never spoken. I don’t know for a fact that Charlie—like Bernie on occasion—has ever been arrested while witnessing on behalf of social justice issues, but it sure wouldn’t surprise me.
I grew up going to Episcopal Youth Conferences throughout middle and high school—weekend events that helped shape my adolescent self and taught me how to love and be loved unconditionally. You see, those who went to these conferences saw each other only 3 or 4 times a year, and then only for a weekend. So there were no “masks” for those in attendance; what you saw is what you got. All that pretending we did in high school on the day to day was checked at the door, and we got to know each other for who we really were. I was a certified “Episcopal Conference Junkie,” meaning if there was a conference, I was there. And I met some of the most amazing people over those years, many of whom I’m still in touch with today, and who I would honestly consider my closest friends.
These conferences, although they included curriculum programming and worship, were definitely very emotionally based. Most of us were in tears at the end of each weekend, knowing we wouldn’t see our friends again for a long while. They were our extended family, our home away from home.
Most of these high school youth eschewed the church upon entering college, opting instead for greek life or partying or whatever else it is that commands the attention of awkward young adults. I, however, was one of those stalwarts who, as soon as I got to UNCG, sought out St. Mary’s House—the episcopal campus and community center. I wasn’t done with church. Perhaps I was hoping to “keep feeling that high” from the church conferences, albeit in a new milieu. I never found that high at St. Mary’s House.
Instead I found Charlie.
I found a priest who for our Wednesday night gatherings, in lieu of a sermon, would use the socratic method to facilitate intellectual curiosity and discussion among college-aged christians. A man who believed we all had a voice, and he wanted to hear ours.
I found a priest who for the Sunday morning Eucharist, would deliver not some other-worldly Paul Tillich kind of sermon, but would lean more towards Reinhold Niebuhr’s focus on this-world social justice issues.
I found a priest who fully embodied the idea of the “Beloved Community,” a notion popularized by Martin Luther King, Jr., in which “everyone is cared for, absent of poverty, hunger, and hate.” Charlie was so social-justice driven and racially fair-minded that he convinced a bunch of us lily white college kids to attend a local speech given by Minister Louis Farrakhan of the Nation of Islam. If we weren’t the only white people in attendance, we were sure in the minority. But Charlie thought it important for us to be there and learn something.
I found a priest who fully actualized the meaning behind St. Mary’s House as a bonafide “campus and community center,” who—much to the chagrin and damnation of evangelical christians—allowed the local Hare Krishna chapter to offer a free, weekly, vegan dinner to any who graced the doorstep of the building.
I found someone who encouraged my artistic development immensely. Not only did he freely give me use of St. Mary’s House as a venue for my band to perform whenever I wanted; not only did he recruit me to sing solos for Holy Week and other christian feast days, long before I had such breadth of experience singing in front of others; but I specifically remember being in the chorus of the UNCG production of “Fiddler on the Roof,” and Charlie saying afterwards, “I watched you like a hawk throughout the show and you didn’t break character once!” For someone who felt quite awkward being on the stage in such a capacity—as this was relatively new for me—this was an immense boost of confidence.
I also found something I don’t think I had ever experienced: someone who wasn’t willing to tolerate my bullshit. I remember specifically one instance where I was late for a group outing, and didn’t really have a justifiable reason. I had held the group up, and Charlie let me know how irresponsible and selfish it was on my part to put myself before everyone else. He wasn’t interested in my excuses. But he also didn’t just give up on me. He let me know that I was in the wrong, and I received that message loud and clear—instead of throwing it back on him and huffing out, breaking ties as is often the response on the part of a young man being confronted with his own shortcomings.
But most importantly, I found a friend.
In my deepest, darkest episodes, Charlie was there. I remember meeting with him weekly for a while when I was going through a particularly rough time in my life. Unlike a new “as needed” therapist, he already knew me—and knew me well. Thus, we were able to “skip the preliminaries” and really delve deeply into my issues. So, I think it’s fair to say that if I didn’t have Charlie at that point in my life, I might not be here today.
A few years after I had graduated, Charlie had something like a triple-bypass surgery. I don’t remember why, but I ended up being the person who drove to his house almost every day for a couple of weeks, in order to simply walk with him around his neighborhood so that he could get the exercise necessary to help heal his heart. On those walks I often thought of John Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley,” if nothing more than for the title. But here I was, with this giant of a man that I probably idolized, who was now feebly fumbling around just trying to put one foot in front of the other, as I perambulated in tandem ready to assist if he lost balance or started to fall. It was likely a humbling experience for both of us. Maybe that’s why he felt called to ask me, who the hell knows.
To say that Charlie was one of the single greatest influences on my adult formation would be an immense understatement. Charlie taught me how to move past being a “Candy Ass Christian” (HIS term!) into one of thoughtfulness and reflection. And most importantly, one that pays heed to the actual social justice narrative of the gospels which seem absolutely lost on today’s conservative christianity. I’d hazard a guess that if it wasn’t for Charlie, I might not have ended up in religious studies, which passionately consumed my life for a number of years resulting in an authentic, unique, theological voice that has even entertained a wide audience.
Charlie helped teach me how to be a mature, responsible member of a community—not an isolated individual. He had an immense wit and sense of humor, and if you ever were lucky enough to hear him guffaw after a particularly bad pun or joke, then you should consider yourself blessed. Hearing his laugh was like listening to the angels.
I’ll leave you with Charlie’s post from June 23rd—the last he ever made on facebook—which perfectly captions his humor and wit, and of course with a dash of social reality:
“Nice to be home again. Spent most of the last month in the hospital and rehabbing. Bum mobility with insults to my bum. More strangers gawking at my naked sitter than at a pole dancer's best shimmy. Smile with me friends. We can laugh and sing and play together while the bad guys may even yet go to jail.”
Rest in peace, dear brother. You are gone but not forgotten. I love you more than words can tell. I hope you find your way to your beloved Sheila in the next dimension, whatever and wherever that is, and I’m sure you are keeping all the saints and angels ROTFL in stitches. 
Pictured below: Charlie Hawes with the inimitable Archbishop Desmond Tutu, most definitely a kindred spirit cut from the same cloth.
💀
Entry #2 - Dr. Richard Garner Cox (1928-2020)
Some of you caught my inaugural post last week about this new writing project—in which I want to memorialize those I have known who have passed on to the next realm. I also commented on how extensive that list is. I finally did a tally, and of those I can remember so far, I have lost 69 people. I’m sure there are a few more I forgot, and some who I’m not even aware of. Either way, it looks to be a daunting project for sure! But I look forward to revisiting the memory of these folks who have brightened my own existence with theirs in most cases.
But how should I proceed? I can’t really go in chronological order, as I’m not sure exactly when all of these folks passed. And I wanted to avoid “picking and choosing,” as I don’t know if it would come across as memorializing first those who I liked best. So, in an attempt to be more random in my approach, I’ve assigned number values to each and will simply roll a pair of dice! Today’s remembrance is of Dr. Richard Cox.
Dr. Cox was one of the choral conductors in the highly esteemed music program at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Indeed, UNCG’s School of Music has long been recognized as one of the top music institutions in the country—as evinced by the number of its graduates who have gone on to impressive musical careers in numerous top-notch institutions worldwide (myself included! 
). I would say that Dr. Cox was definitely one of the reasons for this, at least from a singer’s point of view. Of course I didn’t take private voice lessons with him, as he wasn’t on the voice faculty. But, as far as preparing young singers for careers in choral outfits, he was unrivaled.
). I would say that Dr. Cox was definitely one of the reasons for this, at least from a singer’s point of view. Of course I didn’t take private voice lessons with him, as he wasn’t on the voice faculty. But, as far as preparing young singers for careers in choral outfits, he was unrivaled. Previous to matriculating at UNCG, I had sung in the church youth choir, the high school chorus, and several honors choruses. All of these ensembles were incredibly fun and fulfilling, but were comprised of mostly immature, untrained voices. Then I found myself in choral groups as a college freshman, surrounded by serious students who were pursuing a career in either singing or teaching music. It’s hard to convey what it was like to sing in a large ensemble of music majors, but it was unlike anything I had heretofore experienced. As was required of most voice majors, I signed up for University Chorale, thinking I knew what to expect—but then being blown away at the artistry all around. Dr. Cox was the conductor, and his wit, mannerisms, and pedagogy are forever burned into my memory.
By this point, the Autumn of 1990, Dr. Cox was already in his 60s, and we foolish and feisty freshmen let this old man have it right away. We joked how he looked like Ichabod Crane, and we even mimicked the hilarious little snicker he would emit when he made himself laugh while recalling some humorous anecdote. We probably came across as pompous and pretentious to such a learned and seasoned musical mind, but to be honest, I can’t remember him ever singling any of us out in embarrassment; I’m sure he would say something to try to keep us in line, and we probably just rolled our eyes, regrouped, and sang on. But that was the main thing: the singing. And I surely owe much of my choral artistry today to this amazing man.
Only musicians and musicophiles will understand this, but my experience singing in Dr. Cox’s ensembles for 4 years really raised the bar for my musical maturity. Whereas my previous classical encounters were the likes of Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus” or Tallis's’ “If ye love me,” I now found myself contending with the likes of the Britten War Requiem, Mozart Mass in C Minor, or literally anything by Bach. These types of major complex compositions, completely new to me, were all a beast to learn! But learn them I did, as well as how to sing choral masterworks with artistry and attention. And pride.
Dr. Cox didn’t invent proper choral diction practices—although I believe he made some noteworthy contributions to this field of study? Either way, one clear-as-a-bell memory of this man is when we were preparing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” to be sung at commencement if I remember correctly. To this day, I remember the very clear instructions he gave to this choir of over a hundred. I shall paraphrase:
“When you have a group this large, you can’t sing the words as you would speak them, as it will come out sounding too muddy. What we have to do is line up our phrasing as an ensemble, so that an audience of several thousand will all hear the proper pronunciation. Therefore, you can’t sing ‘Truth is marching,’ because, to the listener’s ears, it will just sound like a jumbled mess. So, what we do, to convey the pristine diction of the text is sing the following: Troo thih smah ching!” Again, this was probably a choral trick invented by the likes of the illustrious Robert Shaw, but this was my first real introduction to the importance of proper diction when singing. And, again, I have carried this instruction throughout a rather distinguished singing career in my own right.
I’ll close with my own personal anecdote about Dr. Richard Cox, which most of you probably slept through. I sing in a professional church choir in NYC on Park Avenue. For a number of years, I was also the tenor section leader for the volunteer choir which sang the early service. So, for all those years, my alarm went off at some ungodly hour when most folks weren’t even dreaming about brunch yet. As part of my weekly routine, after my shower while I was getting ready, I would listen to NPR. There was a short segment during that early hour which I always caught: the Sunday Puzzle with Will Shortz, a broadcast for which thousands (?) of folks “auditioned,” hoping for a chance to solve a puzzle live on the air with the host.
Lo and behold, one random Sunday morning after hearing Shortz’s usual introduction, he introduced the day’s contestant, and I was stopped in my tracks for just a second when I heard the host announce, “This week's winner is Richard Cox from Greensboro, North Carolina,” etc.
I can’t remember the actual puzzle, but I believe it had something to do with a play on the word “deaf.” Richard Cox from Greensboro, NC, made me proud that morning, as I thought, “I KNOW THIS GUY!” And let me tell you—he almost absolutely nailed it. I believe on that show they usually have 10 questions. Well, Richard got 9 of the 10, most of which I probably didn’t know.
But he missed the last one.
I say I believe the puzzle was a play on the word “deaf,” because the final question stretched back into 80’s black culture, something which I’m not surprised he didn’t know. But I did. As I had attended a 92% black high school back in the day. Whatever the question, the answer was “Def Jam,” as in Def Jam Productions of Russell Simmons fame, who signed acts including the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, LL Cool J, Jay Z, DMX, and Kanye West.
As I had attended a 92% black high school back in the day. Whatever the question, the answer was “Def Jam,” as in Def Jam Productions of Russell Simmons fame, who signed acts including the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, LL Cool J, Jay Z, DMX, and Kanye West.I wish I could have been with Dr. Cox that Sunday morning, as I found myself screaming the answer at him through the radio. But nevertheless, I was proud of him for representing my home state rather well, and also tickled pink to hear his voice. I think he even let out one of those famous little snickers on air at one point.
“Hhhheh!”
If you read that and you can hear it, then that will make me smile. 
Rest in peace, Dr. Cox. You are gone but not forgotten. I am glad to have known you, and a much better musician for being able to sing under your direction. If there is music in heaven, I know you’re definitely taking part—if not currently conducting a choir of cherubs!
💀
Entry #3 - Keshav Deo (1971-2011)
When I started envisioning this remembrance, I realized that for years I have been telling people “I went to a 92% black high school.” Now I’m wondering how that statistic was arrived at, and whether or not it simply meant “92% nonwhite.” Does that percentage include the nonwhite kids who weren’t, technically speaking, black? Because we had a handful of international type students—or at least a number of kids whose parents came from far away.
Keshav Deo was born in Nepal, and his family somehow made their way to America. I’m glad they did, because for the brief amount of time I knew him, I liked him a lot. It’s funny how complex migration patterns—both foreign and domestic—oftentimes impact our surroundings and our circles of friends. Had his parents landed in Los Angeles, or even Brussels or Cartegena, I wouldn’t be authoring this post right now. But his family somehow ended up in Durham, NC of all places, and those of us who were lucky enough to know him had our lives enriched as a result.
I don’t remember seeing Keshav much after high school, which means I haven’t seen him in more than 30 years. But I have nothing but good memories of him. Always seemingly affable, the Keshav I knew was typically smiling or laughing. I’m sure he encountered struggles or possibly even darkness in his life as we all do, but in the time I knew him, he never showed it. As best I can remember, he was an all around clean cut kid who got good grades, was involved in extracurricular activities, and was liked by his classmates, teachers, and friends.
30 years is a long time. And my memories of him are more just faint feelings by this point. Specifics are lost, but general remembrances are overwhelmingly positive. I can remember numerous times throughout middle and high school where “so and so” might have rubbed me the wrong way; or picked on me; or bullied me—even if we eventually became friends. But I have absolutely no bad memories of Keshav. He really was a genuinely nice person. He was a team player.
Speaking of teams, we both played on the varsity high school soccer team. I remember him being a particularly good mid-fielder—as a matter of fact, I think he was one of the best players on the team. This is no surprise given his heritage, and I assume he grew up playing the game in his homeland—as soccer is arguably the biggest sport across the globe (except in America, where it is still trying to catch on!) Regardless, much of my time with Keshav was spent on the field.
Needless to say, at a “92% black high school,” soccer was not a big draw. So, it is ironic and humorous that I was a varsity letterman at dear ole’ Durham High School, as I was heavily recruited to play a sport with which I had literally zero experience. They simply needed a certain number of bodies to be able to field a team, and I was one of the last pieces of the puzzle.
We were damn near the worst team in our conference for the three years I wore a soccer uniform. I believe we won one—count it, ONE—game each year. But you know what? We had FUN. Lots of fun. Yes we played our hearts out, but we knew who we were, and we just did our best. We usually got blown out without ever scoring a single goal, but one moment sticks out in my memory of these games. For a while, I played at the fullback position, meaning I was to focus entirely on defense, to keep the other team from scoring. Well, of course when you put someone with no experience that close to the goal, insanity is king. But I am proud to say that I scored a goal once in high school. It was just that it was accidentally against our own team. LOL! (After which I was moved to the forward position for the rest of my varsity career.) (And by the way, I wasn’t the only member of our team to score against us!)
But because we were more about having fun than trying to win, I remember that when I scored this goal, our entire team (save the goalie) was laughing and giving me high fives in ironic self-mockery. I seem to remember Keshav being one of the most boisterous in his response to this unforced error. I guess I’d probably be writing a different remembrance if he had scolded or cussed me out. But he was all smiles and high fives.
He was a joyous soul indeed.
How so incredibly tragic to be gone so young, mere months before his 40th birthday.
I have no idea what took this young man from this plane of existence—if it was sudden, or a long bout with some awful disease. But it just breaks my heart to think of what he might have accomplished if given another 40 years. So many die so young, and we know not what they may have done given extra time.
If you had the foresight, would you want to know when your time was up? Or would you rather just let it play out “as god intended”? I honestly don’t know if I can answer that question for myself. Some days I think, “I hope I just go peacefully in my sleep.” Other days I imagine receiving some terminal medical diagnosis and given six months to live, and thinking, “At least I can say all my goodbyes before I go.”
But that’s the thing about death. Sometimes we know years in advance. And even sometimes those who know choose to remain private about it. But often times it’s sudden. Sometimes it’s a freak accident. Sometimes young people go to bed and simply never wake up.
Sometimes death is absolutely unexpected and unfair.
Keshav Deo. A pretty cool name for a pretty cool fella.
A cursory internet search reveals that the name Keshav, of Hindi origin, means at least two things:
(1) He who has beautiful locks of hair, Slayer of Keshi demon
(2) Son of God; Lord Vishnu
And of course his last name, Deo, simply means “god.”
So his name almost literally translates to “son of god of god.”
I think it’s fitting enough. There are those who project light and goodness in this world, and obviously those who bring the opposite. Keshav was, without a doubt, in the former camp. And ostensibly doubly so.
What is it that folks often say, that the good ones die young? Well he was definitely good, and he made his friends and family better people. And I assume he did that for many others for the 20 years between when I saw him last and when he exited the mortal stage.
Rest in peace, Keshav of God, slayer of demons. You are gone but not forgotten. I can definitely still see your face and hear your voice and your laugh. Maybe in my own times of darkness, I’ll remember you and my other friends who have crossed over—and I’ll try to not take my additional time on earth for granted.
💀
Entry #4 - Betty Domino (1941-2021)
This entry will be one of many related to my current church home of St. Bartholomew’s in NYC. We often refer to St. Bart’s as a midtown canyon, as it is surrounded by high-rise skyscrapers—but also as an oasis, as it is a calm, peaceful place for quiet reflection sequestered from the bustling busybodies hustling up and down Park Avenue through their daily grind in pursuit of the almighty dollar.
I have been at St. Bart’s in some capacity for 20 years now. I have sung in the professional choir that entire time, but also worked full-time for 12 years, from 2008 until the pandemic hit in 2020. In those years I wore many hats, several of which put me in direct contact with countless members of the congregation. And in such a large corporate-sized church, there are bound to be a number of parishioner deaths, especially considering my extraordinarily long tenure there.
Betty was one of those.
I didn’t know Betty well, but still counted her among my friends at St. Bart’s. She volunteered at “St. Bart’s Central,” which was the welcome desk couched inside the church narthex (lobby), and any time I turned the corner and saw her, my blood pressure naturally dropped. She was a rather stoic individual, always brandishing a smile, and usually had a witty aphorism or two ready, at least when she spoke with me.
Being midtown Manhattan, there were always some less than savory characters entering the building for whatever reason. I never really “saw Betty in action,” but I imagine that whoever the character or whatever the problem, she handled it like a Zen Buddhist monk.
As was the case with many of our congregants, Betty was always conversant and congratulatory about my music. Whether the choir gave a rather sublime performance, or if I had a solo on the previous Sunday, or if my band had an upcoming or recent performance, it was always a gateway to conversation. She was unabashedly effusive with her compliments, which endeared her to me all the more.
She also seemed a no-nonsense kind of person. I can’t remember specifics, but whatever internecine political rifts might have been occurring among the staff at whatever time, she was without fail “cool as a cucumber” about it. Indeed, you were more likely to get a wry smile from her than any kind of gossip or slander. She was well past retirement age by this point, and wasn’t going to let anything get her blood boiling. It was very comforting—she was the type person you could seek out for solace or strength vis-a-vis a particularly challenging workday. And she was there of her own accord, simply because she loved St. Bart’s. No personal gain whatsoever.
Rest in peace, Betty Domino. You are gone but not forgotten. I’m comforted to think of you sitting at heaven’s help desk, offering a warm welcome to all the wayward travelers as they make their initial approach. Maybe I’ll see you there after a number of years.
💀
Entry #5 - Dr. Dewey Tull Lawson (1944-2021)
Looking at the long list of names informing this project, I realize that it was when Dewey Lawson died last year that I was prompted to produce said list. It is also interesting that the roll of the dice directed me to this individual on this particular day: August 1st, when an absolute giant—and one of my favorite people ever to walk the planet—was born 80 years ago.
So also today, thanks to a chance roll of the dice, I get to celebrate the life of a man who though he didn’t reach the same stature as Garcia (who could?), was definitely a giant in his own right. I could probably write for hours, digging up multiple memories of his magnanimity, wit, intellect, labor, and honor, but today is Jerry Day and I do want to go and pay proper tribute in my usual annual way—but not before saying a few things about Dewey!
I grew up in Durham, NC, next door to the Lawsons. His son Neal was one of my closest friends growing up—both figuratively and literally. Thus, Dewey was always a “series regular” in “the story of my life” for well over a decade—even though for a good portion of that he was just a friend’s dad who I’d inevitably see whenever we were hanging out.
So, what to say about Dewey Lawson? I’ll start by saying, upon combing through my memories, that he was one of the most even tempered individuals I remember ever knowing. I honestly don’t remember ever hearing this man raise his voice at anyone—his children, their friends, his wife, the kids in his scout troop—nobody. I can’t imagine anybody living such a serene life completely devoid of the full spectrum of human emotions, but if Dewey was ever angry, frustrated, or upset, he never displayed these publicly.
I won’t say he was a “gentle” person. No, he was actually pretty intense. But that intensity was rooted in a place of genuine curiosity and sheer excitement. Whatever he spoke about, he did so with passion. Throughout the years, whenever I was back in Durham and found time to visit the Lawsons, he was intensely interested in hearing about anything and everything I was doing. But he also inevitably had something valuable and interesting to contribute—a rarity these days in a culture of cacophonous conversations where people constantly just talk over one another.
Dewey Lawson was so freaking smart that he would naturally always “one up” you—in a manner of speaking. That is to say, he NEVER spoke in a pedantic fashion—but that he just inevitably probably knew more than you about whatever the subject at hand was. I had heard it said that Dewey Tull Lawson was “the smartest man ever to come out of Smithfield, NC,” the place of his birth. I don’t know if I just heard that in passing, or if someone had somehow actually done a quantifiable study of the man’s life and arrived at this conclusion. Either way, the sentiment isn’t surprising, given that the man was Ivy League educated for his undergrad work (Harvard, for Christ’s sake), followed by a PhD IN PHYSICS from Duke University. He then went on to teach at both Cornell and Duke. But that’s definitely not the extent of his smarts.
Rereading his obituary from last year, it goes on to talk of his work in the “Research Triangle Institute, where he worked with a team developing cochlear implant technology to restore hearing for people with profound hearing loss. He taught courses in acoustical physics at Duke, bringing together his love of music, science and architecture. He was an active member of First Presbyterian Church in Durham, and as a volunteer served as a Boy Scout troop leader and as timpanist with the Durham Symphony.” I get tired just reading that! Seriously, how the hell does one man have so much time in his life to accomplish so much?? And that’s probably just scratching the surface.
Returning to my comment above, that he probably knew more than you about whatever the subject at hand was, I recall that in just the last few years, when I had a chance to return home from NYC to visit NC, I intentionally made time to visit with Dewey and his wife Bet when I knew that he was dealing with myriad health issues. Now, I’m no hack when it comes to classical music. I have a BA in music from UNC-Greensboro, and since moving to NYC 22 years ago, have been singing in the chorus that appears with the New York Philharmonic for almost the entirety of that time. I’ve also been singing just as long at St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue, which boasts a world-class professional choir. I’ve soloed in front of a Symphony Orchestra in North Dakota, and sung professionally as far away as Switzerland. Where classical music is concerned, I feel rather experienced and confident.
But not in front of Dewey Lawson.
He never knew this, but he knew way more than me about classical music. I felt embarrassed and humbled as he went off on a tangent, just smiling and nodding, as if to suggest I understood what he was talking about—as I didn’t want to appear uninformed. I felt a little like David Sedaris in “Me Talk Pretty One Day,” where he writes of teaching a classroom full of students—all the while distracted by a voice in his head saying something like “What the hell are you doing up here? They’re going to recognize what a fraud you are pretty soon!”
But Dewey also deserves credit for uplifting me in ways for which he likewise wasn’t aware. I sang for his son Neal’s wedding, and I can’t remember which piece it was—most likely something by Handel—but I distinctly remember Dewey complimenting my performance. Though of course he went above and beyond what the average Joe might say, and pointed specifically at my impressive use of Baroque ornamentation. This was very encouraging to hear, as I was never as confident about singing solo classical arias—my forte was always in a choral context. He helped me cultivate a sense of pride about my performance.
Such attention to minutiae was, I believe, his bread and butter. I guess all in all, I would say that Dewey Lawson was an all-around nerd. But, as many of us learn through the maturation process, that isn’t the insult it was in high school. Quite the contrary. And I’d say Dewey was one of the biggest nerds I ever met.
Dewey was also my scoutmaster. And anyone who pays attention to news headlines knows that, as is the case with the Catholic Church, the Boy Scouts of America have long weathered negative press regarding sexual abuse accusations. If the BSA in defense needed a paragon at which to point, I’d suggest they look no further than Dewey Lawson. He was nothing but a symbol of leadership, encouragement, perseverance, and hard work, with no unethical or questionable behavior whatsoever. I’d also say that he is surely one of the primary reasons why I ended up achieving the rank of Eagle Scout. He also had the most badass scoutmaster tent imaginable, one that looked primed for a Native American sweat-lodge ceremony!
Rest in peace, Dr. Lawson. You are gone but not forgotten. I’m sure god has his/her/its hands full with you right now, as you are most likely inundating that deity with creative ways to make heaven even better for the rest of us. With your life’s work and interest in acoustics, hearing, and music, I can only imagine the improvements you’re going to make to whatever music is in that place. Since you arrived, God has probably been conversing with the cherubim and seraphim, saying “We thought it couldn’t get any better than this because I’M GOD and THIS IS LITERALLY HEAVEN—and in walks THIS guy!”
Well done, Dr. Lawson. And well done god, for creating him in the first place!
💀
Entry #6 - Sue Horner Sample (1910-1999)
Sue Sample, or “Mama Sue” as affectionately known to family, was a woman larger than life. She was the sister of my grandmother on my mother’s side. I had to double check with google for the right familial terminology, as I always referred to her as my Great Aunt. But according to Google, she would technically be my Grandaunt, as “great aunt is the more commonly, although inaccurately, used term.”
Honestly, however, she was always an adopted grandmother for me. Her sister (my grandmother) died when I was in high school, so although I grew up with her, I never knew her as an adult. Her sister Sue, however, lived for another decade, and simply had that grandmotherly persona about her—as she had eight grandkids of her own. Talk about a family legacy!
Absent any living grandparents of my own, once I grew older I naturally gravitated toward Mama Sue as the “elder” of my family. And let me say, you’d be hard pressed to find a more supportive “grandparent.”
--take a breath and remember a loved one real quick--
So, let’s be honest here. Likely every family in America is dysfunctional. Maybe it’s just something in our water or food; maybe it’s a national subconscious feeling of intense guilt vis-a-vis the atrocities committed against the land’s original inhabitants by our ancestors; maybe it’s that we’ve never truly contended with our past evils of slavery and segregation. Or perhaps it’s just a more simple idea mentioned in the Grateful Dead documentary, “Long, Strange Trip,” (paraphrased from memory): that there is something wholly unique about America in that there are so many different ideas of just WHAT America is—such that we really live in numerous different Americas.
We definitely see this playing out in our current political milieu, but maybe it has always been there on the underbelly of the union—a fracturing of the inchoate American psyche, as we all grow up in different regions with different geographies, topographies, climates, food, music, religions, attitudes about liberalism vs. conservatism, how we treat others, etc. Unfortunately, instead of celebrating diversity, our country has a long history of conflicts with “the other,” a despising of those different.
These notions of those who differ are probably undergirded by regional superiority (or inferiority) complexes, as we eventually all succumb to self-righteousness tendencies about what should be and what shouldn’t be; what’s right and wrong. And it is my belief that these tendencies have infiltrated even our families—which is why the stereotypical family gathering is one pervaded by stress and conflict. We all hear the same jokes and see the same memes annually from November to January, all suggesting that holiday time is hassle time; family equals fretful; reunion is tantamount to regression.
With our increased political stratification, family time has for many become all out wartime in our current incarnation of country, one where we can’t seem to agree about anything. I’m not sure what this Great National Dysfunction is rooted in, or when it first reared its ugly head, but again, let’s be honest: most American families suffer from some form of dysfunction in one way or another.
Our family was no exception.
Over many years, one of my cousins clued me in on our own family history. I won’t bore you with juicy gossip or ancillary details, but I definitely don’t remember him speaking badly of Mama Sue. Yet from those conversations, I did walk away with an image of a fierce and formidable female who was not to be trifled with under any circumstance. In my young, impressionable mind, she was akin to the Grand Matriarch of the family.
I had heard family reunion stories of Mama Sue “cornering” other members of the family in rooms far removed from the rest of us. I’m not sure what went on in those rooms, but if our gathering were akin to a Hollywood movie, I would imagine she was executing her duties as “Grand Matriarch” in supreme Scorsesian fashion. Was she keeping people in line? Voicing her displeasures? Was she telling her flock what was expected of them? Was she flat out giving orders to be followed with no inkling of insolence accepted in response?
Again, I just don’t know—as I never found myself in such a situation with her. But I do know for a fact that one of those “cornering sessions” drastically affected the direction of my life as a whole.
My background is upper-middle class, which meant college was assumed upon completing high school. Whereas in this day and age I think every young graduate would benefit from at least one “gap year” before college (for those lucky enough to go), at that time I never even entertained the thought of not going to college. However, I went to a poor, inner-city school, and honestly didn’t take it seriously. The school itself so underperformed that it is now defunct. And apart from playing soccer and singing in the chorus, I didn’t much care for school. And yet I lived in an era when it was simply assumed I would continue my education. And so I went, with no idea what to expect, wholly lacking direction or focus.
Of course this was so long ago that it’s sometimes hard to separate reality and imagination, fact from fiction—as the timeline grows fuzzier for all as we advance in age! But perhaps at that point I was already in my freshman year and pressured to choose a major soon and said, “Well, I don’t much care about school but I do love to sing, so, uh . . . I guess I’ll major in music?” My parents—practically minded as always—tried to dissuade this decision, instead suggesting paths with greater career stability; something like accounting or biology or what have you. But once Mama Sue caught wind of this, that conversation came to a close rather abruptly.
My understanding is that Mama Sue cornered my mother at one of those gatherings and basically let her know I was indeed going to major in music. The Matriarch had spoken, the issue was settled. I wasn’t part of this conversation but it obviously altered my trajectory in substantive ways.
Again, due to cognitive cobwebs, I’m not sure when, but at some point Sue started asking me to play and sing at family gatherings. I was self-taught on piano early on and had written a number of original songs, but wasn’t yet comfortable doing so in such an intimate environment. Do I indulge the old lady or do I stand my ground this time? Cause I’m not looking to be the center of attention, especially among family!
(Author’s note: I have never done well with post performance mingling. I just left everything there on the stage, I got nothing left by that point.)
Okay first of all, how can you say no to one of your favorite little old ladies when they ask you to sing? And secondly, she obviously held the familial seat of power, and was not to be crossed. Regardless, these little family concerts gave me strengthened confidence as a performer, which further solidified my future as a professional musician.
Yet there was another, indirect, action of Aunt Sue that pushed me even further as a perennial performer. By my mid-20s, I had already amassed an amount of credit card debt—as is the case with just about every young adult American. And this debt was constantly a conversation of topic with my financially fiscal parents. But when Aunt Sue died, she left me a cash gift from her family estate. And my mother, possibly fearing matriarchal retribution from beyond the grave, said plain as day—and I do remember this clearly: “She loved you and she loved your music so much, so you should spend this money on something—anything—related to music; don’t just put it towards your credit card debt. She would want you to do something more meaningful with this.”
That was the year before I came to NYC to enter seminary. By this point, I was also self-taught on guitar, and had realized that I was adept at learning fretted instruments. So, heeding motherly advice, I adopted my first mandolin. I’ve now been playing for 23 years, and believe I’ve carved out a unique styling unlike most typical mandolin players—and have actually achieved a bit of an albeit small national fanbase as a result. So, that purchase surely would have pleased Mama Sue. I can imagine her cornering my mother and saying, “See? I told you so!” I wish she were here for that cornering. Mom would say the same.
Rest in peace, Aunt Sue. You are gone but not forgotten. Of all those who have had an impact on my life trajectory, yours is arguably one of the most profound. Now, do us all a favor, and get god cornered in one of those celestial side-rooms, so y'all can help bring some order out of the chaos surrounding us down here!!!
💀
INTERMISSION: I posted this earlier this week on my timeline, but wanted to repost here in the actual album, in case anyone stumbles upon these writings and wonders why the hell they didn't get tagged.
For the record, as I dig into these remembrances I've been posting, I am not tagging anyone -- for several reasons. Maybe I'm just terrible at social media and self promotion -- which is why I've never "made it" as a musician or a writer. And also, I honestly don't want to commit a chunk of my limited free time trying to think WHO I should tag, and then inevitably forgetting and upsetting someone.
But primarily, with these "Death Diaries," I don't want to come across as trying to promote my voice or my writing. All I'm doing is remembering the deceased in my own life. I haven't even tagged my own family members, so don't take it personally! 
If I was FB friends with the person I'm memorializing, I will tag that person. But other than that, please don't be upset if you feel you should be tagged but aren't. Cause nobody is! Anyone reading any of the entries can feel free to tag others or share with anyone, be my guest!
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Entry #7 - Charles Alan Lynam (1930–2013)
Returning rather quickly to my time at UNC-Greensboro (see entry #2), today’s roll of the dice presents the incredibly talented Charlie Lynam, a member of the voice faculty with whom I studied for a couple of years.
Now is probably a good time to point out that, although my posts so far feel pretty epic, there are a number of folks on my list who I did not know that well. I’d say Charlie was one of those, and so I honestly don’t have much to say about this man, other than he was a gentle person when off the clock, but otherwise a stern, serious, no-nonsense educator.
I had studied for 2 years with one of the other voice faculty, but decided it wasn’t working out. So I asked to switch, and Charlie accepted me into his studio. I don’t know if it was just the male pedagogical perspective (my previous teacher was female) but I feel like Charlie was able to coax new approaches and techniques from my instrument. Perhaps it was simply that I started taking school more seriously, but once I was working with Charlie, something clicked. Or maybe, similar to the other Charlie I memorialized earlier, it was because he wouldn’t tolerate mediocrity.
I’ve lately again worked my way through “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt” on Netflix, and “Freaks and Geeks” on Hulu. Each of these series include a character who is a teacher—but in name only. Meaning that, in both shows, that character is lazy, doing just enough to get by, and showing no interest whatsoever for the students placed in their care. And I’m sure most of us have had a teacher (or twelve) like that in our own educational history. Charlie was the opposite; he was what a teacher is truly supposed to be.
Just as doctors are required to take the Hippocratic Oath, or politicians swear to uphold the constitution, there should be some ceremony in which teachers publicly dedicate their lives to upholding standards of education—that they will do everything in their power to encourage and support students no matter what. I don’t know if such oath exists, but Charlie was a paragon for this idea, constantly pushing me to my absolute limits to the point of breakthroughs.
And, well, here we are—with my instrument constantly being utilized, and also producing income over many years pursuing many genres of music.
Additionally, our studio felt like an extended family—we thought we had the coolest group of all the voice studios, and such camaraderie can’t be overlooked when holding the captain accountable for those in his charge. That is to say, with such a fun group of folks all studying under the same teacher, Charlie’s dedication and influence must be recognized. Instead of gossip, slander, squabbling, and backstabbing, we were joking, embracing one another, dining together, and supporting each other when a performance arose. I believe it was Charlie who cultivated such a syndicate, through his warm grandfatherly approach in the off-hours, in tandem with his laser-focused faculty duties. And none of this comes as a surprise, as according to his obituary, he was “the recipient of a UNCG Alumni Teaching Excellence Award in 1979 and was named Teacher of the Year in the School of Music for 1999.”
Rest in peace, Charlie Lynam. You are gone but not forgotten. Had I taken my lessons with you even more seriously, and given you the full dedication deserved from a student, who knows how much further I could be in my career. Perhaps I’d be singing in the Metropolitan Opera. Regardless, I learned much from you that has served me quite well professionally over the years. And I also have some lifelong friends, thanks to the warm studio you helped nurture!
💀
Entry #8 - Jerome John Garcia (1942-1995)
Breaking with the overall tenor of this project, this remembrance is a one-time post about someone I never actually met—but a figure who had an immensely profound impact on my life.
Since commencing these posts, I have started remembering others I have lost along the way—and the count is now up to 83. And yet, through so much personal loss over the course of many years, not a single one has had the impact that Jerry’s death has. It’s so strange to feel so connected to someone that one has never met. But on this week in particular, I am again overwhelmed with emotion, as I think of this mystical minstrel who touched countless lives—and continues to do so, even beyond the grave.
Those not in the know might ask, “why this week in particular?” In response, I’ll hope to elucidate this matter, shining a light on a cultural phenomenon of which many of you might not be aware.
Jerry Garcia, one of the founders—and the elusively indifferent, implicit leader—of the Grateful Dead, was born on August 1st, 1942. In a fashion begetting a kind of cosmic symbolism, he died on August 9th, 1995. I’m not sure how long it took for someone to seize the symbolism of these dates, but you’ll notice they are quite close in proximity. Thus, soon after 1995, deadheads started annually celebrating this span of days as a time of tribute to this nonpareil musician—and coined it “The Days Between,” in reference to the days between (but including) his birth and death.
This celebration is augustly and allegorically underscored by the fact that the last great song that Garcia wrote with his dear friend and lyricist Robert Hunter in 1993 was titled “Days Between,” providing an incredible instance of synchronicity, the likes of which is rare. I’d even claim—and several million deadheads might agree—that it has rich religious symbolism and significance as well. It isn’t far fetched to draw a calendrical comparison to something akin to Jewish High Holy Days or the Twelve Days of Christmas, wouldn’t you agree?
But wait, there’s more! The lyrics themselves even reference the month of August! Perhaps a premonition, fans of the band were treated to this tune for just a couple of years before Garcia’s demise, as he would every so often sing: “Summer flies and August dies, the world grows dark and mean.”
Oh, and as far as deadhead iconography goes, we all readily recognize the symbolic stature of Jerry’s right hand, the likeness of which has made its way onto countless tapestries, mugs, stickers, t-shirts, hats, and such for decades now. To everyone else who sees the image, it’s a mystery. But anyone in the know, knows.
As a side note, I’ve written extensively about the religious and theological aspects of this band, their music, and their following—but this is the first time I’m publicly stating this question. Is it not obvious, by this point, that there is something, well, OTHER, going on here? Given all the signs mentioned above, is it feasible that there is, in fact, some “meddling” occurring from somewhere outside of this time, this place, this realm, this universe, this existence, this cosmos, this experience? Honestly, it boggles my mind. And, as I publicly continue to beat the drum highlighting the behemoth history of this band, maybe my unattuned audience can start to understand why the death of this man still has such profound impact on me.
Not just during the Days Between, but throughout the year, my tear ducts constantly clamor when I think about what was, and what could have been Jerry. Amidst this onslaught of emotion, I can only focus on what is. And more than anything in such moments, I keep coming back to how strange it is that I still suffer a sadness due to the death of this man I never knew.
I saw Jerry play live 32 times between my first show and his demise. And regardless of my high profile tribute concerts; regardless of the 3 string quartets of Garcia songs I’ve set; regardless of my published theological writings on the dead—I will always and forever consider myself a neophyte in this community.
There is just too much artistic and academic output on the part of both the band and their fans, that it’s literally impossible to be apprised of everything that has surrounded the mystique of this movement, and most definitely the man whom we honor specifically for 9 days every year, without fail and seemingly picking up steam.
I could write for another 12 hours, but I definitely tonight want to check out Garcia’s final interview from April 1995, as I tend to every year. (I’ve had a number of rituals this week in remembrance, as I usually do.) And then, if time permits, I’m curious if any provider is streaming “Xanadu,” as I want to spend a little time with Olivia Newton John tonight as well. RIP, Olivia!
So, I’ll leave you with this. Even if you’re not a fan of the Grateful Dead, you have to recognize the poetic genius of the lyrics below. And then, for the true fan, Garcia’s musical setting is equally transcendent. Here is my live version of it, if you want to check it out.
Rest in peace, Jerry. You are gone but not forgotten. Apparently, you’re on track to never be forgotten! And considering the positive experiences (and the negative ones, cause you’d say those are part of the package) you gave to so many, and still do as new fans are converted every single day, well, I think that’s a legacy worth being proud of. I’m sure proud of you, and I like to think you are somewhere somehow proud of me. I’m doing the best I can to help carry your legacy down here in new and creative ways, so any help you wanna lend would surely be appreciated!
"Days Between"
Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia
Copyright Ice Nine Publishing; not used by permission.
Never trust a prankster.
There were days
and there were days
and there were days between
Summer flies and August dies
the world grows dark and mean
Comes the shimmer of the moon
on black infested trees
the singing man is at his song
the holy on their knees
the reckless are out wrecking
the timid plead their pleas
No one knows much more of this
than anyone can see anyone can see
There were days
and there were days
and there were days besides
when phantom ships with phantom sails
set to sea on phantom tides
Comes the lightning of the sun
on bright unfocused eyes
the blue of yet another day
a springtime wet with sighs
a hopeful candle lingers
in the land of lullabies
where headless horsemen vanish
with wild and lonely cries, lonely cries
There were days
and there were days
and there were days I know
when all we ever wanted
was to learn and love and grow
Once we grew into our shoes
we told them where to go
walked halfway around the world
on promise of the glow
stood upon a mountain top
walked barefoot in the snow
gave the best we had to give
how much we'll never know, we'll never know
There were days
and there were days
and there were days between
polished like a golden bowl
the finest ever seen
Hearts of Summer held in trust
still tender, young and green
left on shelves collecting dust
not knowing what they mean
valentines of flesh and blood
as soft as velveteen
hoping love would not forsake
the days that lie between lie between
💀
Entry #9 - Robert Francis (“Fran”) McKendree (1947-2021)
I first met this incredible musician and human being at Kanuga Conference Center in December 1986, as a freshman in high school. By that point, I was already a bonafide “Episcopal Youth Conference Junkie,” meaning if there was one taking place in NC, I was present. All of the conferences I previously attended were diocesan level, meaning just the middle portion of the state. This was my first provincial event, which included high schoolers from as far south as Florida, as far north as Virginia, and as far west as Louisiana.
At this annual conference, known as “Winterlight,” I met the most amazing people and found some of my greatest friends—many of whom I’m still in touch with. Fran was one of the musicians for this post-Christmas five-night retreat that culminated on New Year’s Day.
By the time he died, Fran was internationally known, having delighted countless congregations and youth gatherings with his concerts and worship music. But when I met him at Winterlight, he was simply part of the band—who were called “The RAFT,” an acrostic for Rick, April, Fran, and Tom. This was shortly before the rise of the Episcopal Church Conference Musician As Rockstar: a period when musicians could make a living playing at youth events and churches, thereby achieving a small semblance of fame among a very niche audience—that niche being flocks of young people who formed a healthy obsession with those who enriched the weekends with their particular brand of music. In addition to Fran, those in the Episcopal Church may likely recognize a number of these names: David Dubay, Michael Haun, Sam Hensley, Lindy Herne, Anna Hutto, Paula Larke, Matt McDermott, Ted McNabb, Charles Milling, and Kep Short. There are even a respectable number of now-young-professionals who still remember a guy named David Bryan who came to play at one of their weekends!
As I was saying, though, in December of 1986, Fran McKendree was not yet the holy hymning heartthrob into which he eventually blossomed. He was just the “F” in a band of letters. I should also point out, that day one of this personally transformative conference was also my first exposure to the Grateful Dead, who were obviously instrumental in my own subsequent musical and theological development. I was with my friend Davey Wilson, walking into one of Kanuga’s cozy, rustic cabins in search of someone, when I first heard the Dead, blaring from a boombox. Having my first encounter of the Dead and Fran on the same day, I was obviously oblivious to any connection there. But as stated in Fran’s obituary, long before he became a spiritual seeker who started playing music at church gatherings, Fran had “formed McKendree Spring, a rock ensemble that the legendary manager Bill Graham called 'one of the best unknown bands in the world'”—Graham, of course, credited with helping launch the Dead’s career. It really is a small world, isn’t it?
As a personal bonus, I was randomly assigned to the same small group in which Fran was placed. (For these conferences, we’d have large group gatherings for all the participants, which would include some music and then thematic programming, followed by small group sessions where we could discuss the presentations.) My first impression of Fran—other than being a great guitarist and singer—was that he was so gentle and unassuming, with no ego whatsoever. You would never guess that he had shared the stage with the likes of Fleetwood Mac and Jimmy Cliff, among other notable acts.
I still have a cassette tape of gathering and worship music from that Winterlight which was mailed to all participants after the fact, an object which to this day holds significant meaning for me. Indeed, I have that tape memorized, and even learned to play a few of the songs featured on it. Fast forward a number of years, and I was at an Episcopal Young Adult Conference in New Orleans for which Fran was the musician. On one of the nights, there was an open mic for which I prepared a Fran original from that Winterlight tape, called “Undying Love.” I loved that song so much that I wanted to surprise him with it, but also to share it with the other participants. His reaction was priceless, as he said, “God, I haven’t heard that song in over 10 years!” But that’s just the kind of impact he had on many individuals over several decades—that he would hear his own song he had completely forgotten, played in tribute to him.
As a musician—and as a person, Fran embodied evangelism at its best. He wrote beautiful melodies and haunting, humanist lyrics, with nothing too overtly christian. He didn’t seek to convert anyone to anything, but through his humble practice, he likely “brought many sheep into the fold,” so to speak.
Rest in peace, Fran McKendree. You are gone but not forgotten. I feel so blessed for having met you when you were simply “F”! And I am admittedly in awe of the number of lives you touched with your tunes. I wish I had the same luck in my own musical journey, but perhaps if I follow in your footsteps, approaching it with more humility and harder work, it still may yet materialize. But even if that never happens, I have your memory, your songs, and your voice to turn to for comfort and inspiration.
💀
Entry #10 - Joseph Flummerfelt (1937-2019)
I knew Joe Flummerfelt through singing for many years with the New York Choral Artists, the professional choir regularly contracted by the New York Philharmonic. Over many years, I probably spoke only 50 words to him, but felt I knew him well—at least musically.
For the Philharmonic (and apparently many other organizations—most notably the internationally acclaimed Spoleto Festival USA, for which I just discovered he was director of choral activities for almost 40 years), Joe was a breed of musician known as the “Chorus Master,” meaning he prepared the chorus from the initial rehearsal to the point where they were handed over to the actual conductor of a performance. In this aspect, the work is grueling, mostly behind the scenes, and surely taken for granted by the general public. But you would never guess that working with Joe, as he brought a strong sense of joy and appreciation to the Herculean task set before him—as well as an intense, learned knowledge of the repertoire. Because let’s be honest, not just anybody off the street can take a choir of 100 professional singers—with all of their idiosyncrasies and issues—and cultivate a level of musicianship deemed worthy of presenting to the likes of Leonard Bernstein, James Levine, or Leonard Slatkin.
Of all the chorus masters I’ve worked under, Joe was one of the best. He was an adept artist who excelled at taking a misshapen ball of choral clay and producing a song statue worthy of a high society art show. Of course persons in this profession are fully capable of conducting the final performances themselves—but there’s always a bigger name waiting in the wings to traipse out and take the final credit. This phenomenon is well illustrated by The New York Times, who in his obit claimed he "played an outsize, if not always highly visible, role in American classical music.”
Regardless of his place in the pecking order of the performance, Joe almost always brandished a smile—whether greeting singers at the first rehearsal, or when he walked onstage to be recognized by the conductor at curtain call, inevitably always giving the chorus an air-fist-bump to signify his supreme satisfaction with our efforts that evening.
After working under him to prepare for countless concerts, I’d have to say his favorite word had to be “friends,” as he would constantly address his choirs in this fashion—which conveyed camaraderie and a sincere sense of respect for singers.
Friends. Not “choir,” not “singers,” not even “folks.” Friends. In this way he was not only a preeminent professional, but also warm and down to earth. I was lucky to learn from him as much as I did.
Rest in peace, Joe Flummerfelt. You are gone but not forgotten. Of the numerous folks I’ve known and lost, you are admittedly one for whom I didn’t really shed any tears when I heard of your passing. But please don’t take that to signify a lack of respect, or to suggest that I didn’t think very highly of you; or that I didn’t recognize your immense musicianship and lasting mark on New York City culture—and beyond. In preparing this post about you, I came across this humorous take on the task of the chorus master, which I feel you would find uproarious. It almost reads as if you wrote it yourself!
💀
Entry #11 - The Reverend Thomas Droppers (1931-2017)
The last month has been jam-packed, but I’m back again to continue tributes to those I have known who are no longer with us. Today’s entry is for a gentle, unassuming man I barely knew 35 something years ago. To be sure, Father Tom is one of many on my list with whom I had very little interaction. I do recall short conversations here and there, but for the most part knew nothing about him. I didn’t, for instance, know that he was “widely known throughout North Carolina for his passion and commitment for the environment,” according to his obituary. But knowing his general persona, that makes perfect sense. His aura was akin to a Wendell Berry type, just in his mannerisms and tone of voice—someone who tried to walk lightly on the earth, with probably heightened concern for his carbon footprint long before that phrase was mainstream.
But that’s the thing: I can still hear his voice—even 35 years later. No, I didn’t know him well, so honestly don’t have much to say about him individually. Therefore, I shall use this post to talk about his chosen profession: that of the cloth.
As I’ve noted elsewhere in these entries, I was a bona fide Episcopal Church Youth Conference Junkie. If there was a conference, I was there. And although most of my connections at these events were with fellow young people, there were always clergy hanging out in the background. Episcopal clergy, to be precise. Far from the pedophilia scandals consuming the Catholic Church, far from the Joel Osteens and Creflo Dollars whose only apparent god is money, and even farther today from rabid rightwing clergy who cherrypick scripture to suit their demagogic ulterior motives, Episcopal clergy have long been quietly doing their thing with little or no fanfare—doing “God’s work,” as it were. I can say this confidently, as I have met countless clergymen and clergywomen throughout my life, and most of them are fairly down to earth. Sure, there are a few “bad apples,” but as a whole they don’t spoil the bunch.
But, at these conferences in general, they were a known quantity. Never authoritarian, never pedantic, never proselytizing, never oppressive, never even a “buzz kill,” they were simply there. It’s hard to imagine, but I’m sure they were also just there to hang out, socialize, and worship with their friends as well—be they fellow clergy or adult sponsors or the youth group leaders who brought these kids to these amazing weekends of ofttimes spiritual and/or emotional transformation. These clergy were never in our faces, they really just sat back and let us be the stupid kids that we were—although in a safe setting.
But they were there.
And when, as a youth, you had some personal or family issue, or problems with a bully at school, or a death in the family, or heartbreak over a lost pet, or questions or concerns about anything, they were there, and they were happy to assist by any means necessary. I guess that’s why I remembered Tom. Like many of my peers, I rode an intense emotional roller coaster on a handful of those weekends, and it was his gentle, approachable nature that suggested the welcome mat was out, the doctor was in. If you needed to talk about something—anything—then the door was open.
Every single Episcopal Church in America has a nearby sign that proclaims, “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.” They are noticeable to all in the know, and honestly used to provide a sense of comfort to me when seeing them in passing. I guess what I’m trying to say about Tom Droppers is that, as one of the many cool clergy folk on those weekends, he more or less had one of those signs metaphorically hanging around his neck whenever I saw him. I never personally sought him out in my worst times of need, but I sure sought out others who probably saved my life with their concern, compassion, and counsel. And I can guarantee you that he was there at some point for someone else—probably one of my best conference friends—when they needed a priest the most.
Tom’s obituary also stated that he “retired after 61 years of service in the Episcopal ministry.” That brought me a sense of admiration, and even produced an ever-so-slight tear in my eye. To think of the effect and influence he had on someone who barely knew him—and then to think he was at it for that long—well, that’s just impressive. And comforting.
Rest in peace, Tom. You are gone but not forgotten. Considering the ridiculously minor role you played in my own spiritual development—without even doing anything at all other than simply being there—I’m sure you were larger than life for many of your flock. I wish I had taken the time to get to know you. Maybe I will in the next realm, who knows.
💀
Entry #12 - Paul Dean Brown (1947-2020)
Paul Brown was the prankster papa of one of my best high school friends, Arlo. I didn’t really grow up with Arlo—we lived in the same neighborhood, but for whatever reason ran with different cliques as young boys. Sometime close to high school, though, we became good friends. By that point, Arlo’s parents were divorced and he mostly lived with his mom and sister. So, I can’t recall exactly when I first met his father Paul, but he sure was a character.
I liked him immediately.
I appreciated the parents of all my friends growing up, but there was something wholly unique about Paul. Perhaps primarily it was that he was the only divorcee of the bunch? I’m scanning my memory bank and can’t recall any other divorcees in our close knit community. But, his uniqueness obviously can’t be attributed solely to marital status. There really was something just . . . different . . . about him.
Different in a totally cool and groovy kind of way, no doubt. I gather that he must have been some kind of leftist liberal hippie type over the years, because I felt like I didn’t have to pretend around him. I was clearly a budding young hippie myself, and perhaps I saw some of myself in him—an identification that helped me realize I could just be Arlo’s crazy friend Dave around him. No “yes sir, no sir,” and no inkling of the generational gap that demands implied deference when addressing one’s elders. Around Paul, I could let my own freak flag fly—especially standing next to his incredibly silly son whose humor meshed so well with mine.
So the thing I remember the most about Paul was his silky smooth smirk. That *knowing* look—accompanied by neither approval nor disapproval—of “I have a feeling you boys are about to get into some trouble . . . just be careful.” And get into trouble we definitely did! But I also knew if we ever needed an adult, he’d be there in a heartbeat, no questions asked and no judgement passed.
He was one of the best dads I knew. So down to earth, so approachable, so genuine. I think he probably saw some of himself in us as well. Perhaps with his knowing glances, he was living vicariously through us. And I’m sure we did him proud.
At every Episcopal youth conference I attended, we were given a t-shirt to remember the weekend. I still have vivid images in my mind of each t-shirt, and each weekend of which they reminded me. With such a growing collection, at one point I decided to clean out my t-shirt drawer, opting to throw out a bunch that were tattered. I don’t remember why, but somehow, someway, Paul ended up with those shirts. Perhaps he was just *that* much of a hippie, that he figured he’d save a few bucks rescuing those shirts from the landfill instead of buying new ones. I remember seeing him often adorning those shirts—bringing back memories—whenever Arlo and I would drop by on a weekend during his home improvement projects. And always on cue, there would be some discussion about how he inherited a bunch of shirts from me. Inheritances usually go the opposite direction, don’t they? So, I feel like that was another testament to the absolute uniqueness of Paul Brown. And every time I saw him, he reminded me of some part of my past. What a blessing those encounters were.
Rest in peace, Arlo’s Awesome Dad Paul Brown. You are gone but not forgotten. I understand from your obituary that you were a UNC basketball fan. We all have faults, and wary of putting anyone on a pedestal, I hereby recognize this one fault that you had. As far as I could tell, it was the only one. I’m sure you had many more—because we all do—but to that young, impressionable hippie who thought “Man, if I’m ever a dad, I hope I’m as cool as this guy,” you were one damn fine human being. Paul Brown, a paragon of parenthood.
💀
Entry #13 - Roy Molitor Ford (1939-2019)
I probably spent less than five full hours of my life around this man, but he was a joy to behold. I first encountered Molitor during my time working at St. Bart’s on Park Avenue in New York City, as he was the spouse of our beloved rector (and my boss!) at the time, the Reverend Buddy Stallings. Those who know Buddy know what a character he is — so it was no surprise whatsoever that his partner was equally a character! I knew Buddy quite well by the time I met Molitor, and honestly, upon being introduced to him, wondered if our country hadn’t had some scientific breakthrough with comedic cloning. Because as far as humor was concerned, you could barely tell the difference between the two of them apart from their voices.
Molitor was just a fun - and funny - guy. Oftentimes in our lives, we meet drab, dull people with either dry or no sense of humor. We also meet those who consider themselves humorists, but who really should just give it up. And of course those who are naturally funny but either don’t realize it or try to own it. THEN we meet those who are genuinely funny — but who KNOW that they are funny. And you could tell Molitor was such a type, as he would give you this intense glare with a sly grin while blurting out whatever witty thought came to mind at the moment. In our limited encounters, he always immediately put me at ease, which cleared the way for his improvisatory comedic take on whatever was the current subject of conversation.
I never had any one-on-one time with Molitor, as Buddy was always at his side in my presence — but let me tell you, these two should have quit their day jobs and pursued a career as a comedic duo. As older gentlemen, their style was probably more influenced by the likes of Laurel & Hardy or Lemmon & Matthau; but, being both ever so slightly iconoclastic in nature, there was also just a hint of Cheech & Chong or Wilder & Pryor.
There was no idle chat with this palpably loving pair, no politics, no poison, no pomp — they would just perfectly play off of each other in search of pure joy and hilarity. And those of us lucky enough to be standing nearby surely felt our blood pressure drop a bit as we found ourselves often snickering uncontrollably. I learned from his obituary that Molitor was big in the banking business; so perhaps his off-the-clock off-the-wall humor was an escape from the doldrums of his everyday business life. OR, perhaps he was the “class clown” at work as well, helping coworker and colleague find that same humor and joy during the long hours of the workweek, helping make each workday just a little bit more bearable. Because if you can’t laugh about life, then what’s the point? And even though I spent an insignificant amount of time around him, I knew he knew how to laugh at life.
That isn’t to say that he never struggled in his own life when he wasn’t in the immediate “spotlight.” And struggle he surely did, as we all do. I’ve mentioned elsewhere that at one point I wondered if I was an alcoholic, so I committed to a 90-day sobriety test, which included going to AA meetings in midtown near my job. And lo and behold, I started seeing Molitor at those meetings. So, at the very least we know he struggled with alcohol — and probably also with the character flaws that often accompany. But, as anyone who has ever attended AA will attest, those meetings are themselves often akin to a comedy club — with its members engaging in a sort of spiritual self-immolation, figuring out how to laugh about the whole thing as a means of staving off the tears. I don’t know how many tears Molitor shed in his life, but if there’s a classic example of “laughing through the pain,” damn if it wasn’t him.
(By the way, I’ll just say here that I had Buddy’s permission to write about this!)
Rest in peace, Molitor. You are gone but not forgotten. If the afterlife looks like a diverse city block in Midtown Manhattan, then surely you’re in the comedy club, headlining for all of heaven — and keeping God’s blood pressure down!
💀
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