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.

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.

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.

Today, Deadheads across the world celebrate the life of their sage, their prophet, their muse, Jerry Garcia.

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)

Obviously, from the expansive and expanding list of people I've known who have “crossed the bridge” — which is now pushing 90 (!!) — I was not incredibly close with every single one of them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still remember them, and fondly at that. Molitor was one such individual.

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!

💀

Entry #14 - The Reverend Kermit Marshall Bailey (1936-2010)

This week’s roll of the dice takes me back once again to my Episcopal Church youth conference roots, and to a very peculiar individual: Kermit Bailey. I mean peculiar in such a way that can’t be conveyed through the written word to those who didn’t know him; but that anyone who reads this who made his acquaintance will understand, and probably smile and snicker a bit. I mean, how many people named “Kermit” does one meet over the course of one’s life anyway? It was a very fitting name. And also highly memorable! Maybe that’s why he initially stood out to me.

An Episcopal Deacon, my earliest memory of Kermit was of an old, bald, slightly rotund guy in a clerical collar playing basketball with a handful of high schoolers taking their daily exercise. I don’t remember if he was any good, but we all got a kick out of the fact that this old timer joined us to begin with.

I’ve written before about the personal importance of these conferences and the clergy that were in attendance as either chaperones or youth group directors. And Kermit was no exception. Perhaps basketball provided the point of entry to converse and get to know each other — as I was an avid basketball player and fan in my teen years. Regardless, he befriended me and I always sought him out at future events.

In an ecclesiastical setting, a deacon serves as a bridge between the church and the world, focusing on ministries of service and justice. So, they embody the real “hands on” aspect of religion, often serving in this capacity as volunteer. Is there any better, more important work for the church if we’re going to have all these ornate edifices dedicated to some guy who died 2000 years ago — whose own life and ministry mirrors very much the institutional role of deacon? Granted, much of current American Christianity seems intent on throwing the baby out with the bathwater to make room for something Christian in name only, but for mainline denominations, the point has been the message of Jesus all along: to love the unloved, care for the sick, comfort the downtrodden, house the homeless, welcome the immigrant, etc. And I have to say: of just about all the clergy I’ve known, Kermit was in the cream of the crop when it comes to embodying those ideals.

Hearkening to the John Lewis notion of “getting into some good trouble,” Kermit always somehow seemed to be accompanied by controversy — as his fellow clergy would often roll their eyes upon hearing his name. Some of them even slandered Kermit, suggesting he was a closeted homosexual. Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn’t. He did seem the slightest bit flamboyant in mannerism, speech, and style, but ultimately that has no bearing on the legacy he left behind. And it seemed to be a legacy that pissed off the powers that be. I was never privy to any of this controversy, but if I knew Kermit at all, I’d guess he was goading his fellow clerics for not focusing enough on the pesky beatitudes mentioned above.

Kermit likely eventually threw his hands up and said “to hell with these guys,” and charted out on his own to fulfill — even actively live — those beatitudes. In the early 1990’s, he founded Triad Disability Advocates, Inc., which was a nonprofit that assisted disabled persons to secure Social Security Disability benefits. He did this on his own until he realized just HOW many disabled people there were in the region — and thus he sought out an associate to help with this work. It just so happens that associate turned out to be me.

As I am once again unemployed and scrambling to find a job, I daily curse those “required qualifications” portions of job postings, because I think they are an unnecessary metric that prohibits bright people even from consideration for a position. And as I curse those qualifications, I think to myself “just because I don’t know how to do it now, doesn’t mean I can’t learn — and quickly!” And the reason for this self-realization was Kermit Bailey. He very clearly said to me, “David - you’re going to have a lot of work ahead of you - and I guarantee you’ve never done anything like this. But I believe in you because you have the GIFT. Anyone can learn how to master this process — but nobody can learn how to have the gift. YOU have that gift, and so you are going to be very, very good for this organization and its stated aims.”

Kermit never defined exactly what that gift was or is, but I soon understood what he meant. We were literally helping the poorest of the poor, not only with obtaining monthly benefits but with transporting items from local food banks to their homes as well. And holy hell, dealing with the Social Security Administration itself! I learned how to negotiate the system from start to finish — from filing initial claims, to requests for reconsideration, seeking out and collecting medical records, and even serving as a de facto attorney representing clients before Administrative Law Judges! It was all quite complex, and reminiscing on this work reminds me that I CAN DO ANYTHING. And it was Kermit who instilled this belief in me, which has served me through some of the most unique vocational work one could hope to experience.

Another interesting aspect of this outfit: Kermit never demanded a percentage of so-called backpay. There were local lawyers who did this same kind of work who would — as lawyers are wont to do — demand a percentage upfront for whatever was eventually awarded to these disabled folks. But not Kermit. Always spiritual, never religious, this organization survived on grassroots donations of $10 a month from people who believed in his work. And whenever we won a large settlement for someone, Kermit simply asked them to join the cause at $10 a month. The guy was a real mensch, truth be told.

I just did a google search, and although now under a different name, this organization is still operational, and even now has a board of directors! If I were Kermit looking down from heaven, I’d be humbled to think that one man’s vision, work, persistence, and perseverance is still bearing the fruit of the Christian gospel. I had thought many years ago to nominate Kermit for beatification based on the work he accomplished. Upon learning this nonprofit is not only still active — but thriving — resurrects that thought.

Rest in peace, Kermit of God. You are gone but definitely not forgotten. Better keep that three-pointer sharp for when I come make my debut on the court past the clouds! You and me versus God and Jesus. Let’s take ‘em to the hoop!

💀

Entry #15 - Jennifer Boyd Cole (1973-2020)

This week’s entry will be short, as I was never really that close to Jennifer. But what I remember of her is an ebullient and effusive individual who always had a smile on her face regardless of circumstance.

I’m sure Jennifer struggled through life just like the rest of us — it is simply part of the human experience. However, at least in my presence through our ephemeral, limited encounters, whatever struggles she had ostensibly seemed minimal. I say that because she genuinely seemed to be the type of person to proudly wear their heart on their sleeve — such that, if she were having a bad day, those around her would definitely have known about it. That’s simply the aura she exuded. 

With Jennifer, what you saw is what you got — but the only thing I ever witnessed in her company was sheer wonderment and joy. I think of myself as someone who finds it difficult to share my emotions — but also someone who tends to dwell in them. If I’m having a bad day, I’m not going to pass it off like a dark cloud to those around me, but they will likely know that something is up regardless vis-à-vis the energy I’m giving off. Jennifer struck me as the type of person who, if she was having a bad day around you and you inquired, would literally blurt out with a bit of sass, “Well, I’m just having a shitty day, thank you very much!” All while wearing a wide-eyed big smile across her face, which would likely cause both parties to laugh out loud followed by a cleansing and cathartic empathetic embrace. As I write this now, for some reason I want to say I remember her giving especially good hugs. And as I said, I didn’t even really know her that well — so, good on her. We need more Jennifers in this realm. 

I will rarely proffer any political pronouncements in these remembrances. However, I have to say, after perusing her Facebook posts, that Jennifer was blatantly and unapologetically a defender of human rights of all stripes in the face of oppression. From LGBTQ+ rights to racial equality to the protection of children, she obviously cared deeply about her fellow human beings. Down even to the rights of our so-called essential workers during the early stages of the pandemic — shortly before she met her own demise. I’m not sure what ultimately took this woman from us, but as the old adage goes, only the good die young. Perhaps her heart was too big to be able to withstand the onslaught of authoritarianism creeping across our country right now. If we can take any peace in her passing, perhaps it is that our current political climate would have broken her heart and taken her early anyway. If that be the case, I’m glad she’s not here to have to bear the brunt of the pain and fear so many are feeling.

Oh, and just as a side note, she had an absolutely angelic lyric soprano voice. 

Rest in peace, Jennifer. You are gone but not forgotten. If, in that next realm, we are all afforded only one job, then I’m honestly not sure which I would have nominated you for: as a sassy seraphim in the heavenly choir, or to work alongside Peter to help decipher who is worthy of gaining entrance to the gates, given your passion for social justice. If ever there was someone up to the task of holding both positions, it would be you, given your larger than life personality.  

💀

Entry #16 - The Reverend Deacon John David Clarke (1939-2023)

I don’t know if this random dice roll each week simply caters to men of the cloth, or if I just know a lot of clergy who have crossed over, but here we are again. This week’s entry is in honor of JD Clarke, who I knew fairly well from my time on the staff at St. Bart’s.

For the most part, churches almost always seem to follow the same trends, as if adhering to some dogmatic dictate from Rome: an early Sunday service for family and kids as well as a Christmas pageant; Vacation Bible School; a particular Sunday School curriculum, often approved by a national church governing board, which runs concurrently with adult education hour; a youth group, young adults group and a 40s/50s group; something for elderly parishioners; some kind of “different” Sunday night offering; coffee hours; knitting circles, an occasional singles group, etc. They even often employ the same vernacular, such as “pretzel” for a Holy Day procession that wraps around the congregation several times instead of the usual pattern that simply moves up the aisle from “narthex” to “sanctuary.” And anyone who passes on will hopefully “rest in peace and rise in glory.”

I guess a 2000 year old institution generates its own longevity by putting into practice what has worked for years at other similar places. And there’s always some kind of social outreach program, regardless of scope or size. But where as some run on fumes, or seem like an afterthought, JD had other plans.

As is often the case with “urban ministries” in churches, JD’s office was basically tucked away in a cluttered corner of the basement. It is my understanding that when he took over this outreach aspect, that it was a “token ministry” much like many other churches. But that wasn’t good enough for him, as he was yet another known-to-me true embodiment of the mandate to feed the poor, house the homeless, care for the stranger.

By the time JD retired, St. Bart’s had a bustling outreach arm called “Crossroads Community Services,” which was — and still is — so active that they often have to turn away volunteers looking to lend a hand. In addition to establishing a homeless women’s shelter, there is an active daily feeding program, a pantry stocked full of groceries and produce where those in need can shop for their families once a week, a clothing bank, and it even rescues leftovers from local delis and such that would otherwise be discarded at the end of the day. As a matter of fact, Crossroads became such a behemoth for betterment that it now partners with ALL of the following: City Harvest, the United Way, the Coalition for the Homeless, and the Food Bank for New York City.

Talk about leaving a legacy! This impressive upgrade from token outreach tasks to taming the ubiquitous breadlines was even illustrated in a physical migration for the program, out of JD’s tiny hole in the wall with a desk to almost the entirety of the basement level.

Read about it yourself! This program almost comes across as a “rags to riches” record. Four thousand hungry on a hillside (Mark 8:1-9) would have fared just fine in the presence of JD’s impressive feats in ministry.

As for JD the person, I’ll just say he was one of those truly rare down-to-earth clergy types, who absolutely loved to laugh. I never once saw a scowl or side eye from this guy — to the point where you had to wonder if, when negative and petty human emotions were latently doled out during labor and delivery, he might have somehow been sidetracked. An what a laugh he had. It radiated sheer joy. He also had a great head of hair!

Rest in peace - AND RISE IN GLORY, JD. You are gone but not forgotten. I can’t imagine that heaven has the inequities that exist in this temporal plane, so I’m not entirely sure what your role would be up there. You obviously loved and were furiously and successfully dedicated to your work as a social justice advocate, but since you loved theater as well, perhaps you’re now a member of the cast in the clouds for the greatest musical revue ever conceived. I can’t wait to get a ticket!

💀

Entry #17 Kathleen Tyler Walker (1987-2023)

I’m departing from the usual “roll of the dice” approach and choosing to remember this individual in particular today — as it just so happens to be the 2 year anniversary of her passing. 

Let’s break out of the gates right away and let me honestly say: Tyler was a hot mess! She showed up on the scene at St. Bart’s while I was in my “middle” position as Director of Welcome, Inclusion, and Incorporation. In that role, I was basically the first line of contact for any new congregant who came through the doors. When a beaming Tyler appeared one random Sunday, I thought to myself with a grin, “Oh boy, here comes trouble!” 

I say with a grin because she absolutely reminded me of myself — and I know I’m definitely “trouble” as well! And over the years, we got into some trouble in tandem. She was a huge fan of Grateful Dead and Phish, so we ended up going to some concerts together. Also, she met her boyfriend of many years through me — a guy who I played Texas Hold ‘Em with on a regular basis — so I often saw her outside of the church atmosphere. Whether at a concert, or in church, or just sitting on the couch next to some guys playing cards, Tyler always had a smile on her face. She exuded ebullience no matter the milieu. And she had an absolutely infectious personality. She was actually rather tiny in stature, but made up for that with an ever-present personality that absolutely could fill a room upon entering. Those who knew her well considered themselves lucky. 

But Tyler also had a very dark side. As part of that “middle” job, I found myself as part of the pastoral care team at St. Bart’s — which basically consisted of all the clergy, me, and the Director of Children, Youth, and Family Ministries. In this role, and as we fast became friends, I ended up providing a modicum of unofficial pastoral care and counseling for her, which seemed to endear me to her all the more — and vice versa. So, I was privy to a lot of her pain and suffering. We often never know how much folks struggle internally, as they often convey a completely different character, and Tyler was no exception. She was the type to laugh through her tears, all the while dancing with her demons. And unfortunately she struggled with many of both these. She was otherwise such a simple, sweet soul that it broke my heart that I couldn’t do more to ameliorate her happenstance hurting. 

Her demeanor could best be described as a bouncing feminine embodiment of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh combined with a pixie personality. I always took note that regardless of her internal struggles, she never lashed out at others. Simply put, she had this childlike fascination with every facet of life, even in the face of fear, frustration or failure. And I never ONCE heard her utter anything negative about another human being. There are few we meet in our lives who attain such actualization. Again crops up in my mind that mantra that “only the good die young.” And Tyler was taken way too early from her family and friends. Her passing hit me harder than most — and apparently, I wasn’t the only one to feel this way. According to her mother, Tyler’s funeral at her home church in Lynchburg, VA, set an attendance record for that space on that day. A fitting end to a life cut way too short. 

Other than the fact that today is the anniversary of her death, I added this bonus entry for one other reason. Tonight marks the eleventh anniversary of one of the greatest musical nights of my life, as I was honored to be sponsored by St. Bart’s for my “Songs to Fill the Air: A Memorial Concert to Celebrate the Life of Jerry Garcia.” Leading up to the concert, I launched a Kickstarter campaign to raise $10,000 to have it professionally recorded, and apparently Tyler insisted to her family that this campaign was NOT going to fall short. They ended up contributing a significant amount toward the final goal, and now we have that magical evening available for posterity to appreciate. So, you see, I somehow never noticed until this week that her death date coincided with this historic concert for which she was a major catalyst. Funny how the world works sometimes, huh? I almost see this as some kind of sacred synchronicity.  

Fans of musicians often refer to themselves as the “biggest fan,” with no authentic basis for such a boast. But in this particular case, I think it’s fair to say that Tyler was my biggest fan. I miss her enthusiasm for all my endeavors. 

Rest in peace, Tyler. You are gone but not forgotten. I know the great almighty whatever had the exact same reaction when you rolled in 2 years ago, that same response I remember from you busting through the doors at Bart’s, ready to kick ass and take names: “Oh boy, here comes trouble!” I can hear Tyler’s response right now: “WHATEVER DUDE, YOU MADE ME! AND NOW YOU’RE STUCK WITH ME FOREVER!!” The maker should be so lucky. I’d gladly take her off heaven’s hands in a heartbeat if afforded the opportunity. 

💀

Entry #18 Scott Andrew Vid (1959-2023)

After Friday’s bonus entry in which I broke protocol and chose to write about someone whose death anniversary was that particular day, I’m back to rolling the dice for the standard Sunday entry in these diaries. So, I find it interesting that Scott’s number came up this week.

You see, in addition to Tyler — the subject of the Friday entry who was instrumental in my Jerry Garcia memorial concert at St. Bart’s — Scott was likewise highly significant in that most magical of nights in my entire life.

I never got to know Scott well, but well enough to know he was a warm, funny, vivacious, genuine human being. For that colossal concert, in which I was basically responsible for every last detail down even to ordering pizza and soft drinks for the Green Room, I needed someone with a superior sound system, as well as a recording engineer to fulfill the rewards for the Kickstarter campaign. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I’m NOT a “details” guy — I’m a big picture thinker who just wants to make my music, write my reflections, and satisfy whatever other creative urges arise. So the idea of going on Craigslist — I guess we all went to Craigslist back in those days? — and sifting through hundreds of potential picks was simply overwhelming. Why can’t the universe just send me a personal assistant to handle that kind of crap? 😅

One of the guitarists I enlisted for the concert stepped up and somehow helped me find this guy I was immediately wary of — simply because he had the most outlandish Long Island accent I had heard to that point in my life. I’m a southern boy by nature, and even though I had lived in the big city for 14 years by that point, for whatever reason I hadn’t been out to Long Island at all, so wasn’t really prepared for the shapes of the sounds those folks made when they spoke. Scott’s accent was thick and novel to me, and his baritone voice rather brash, likely from years of smoking. And I was raised to be skeptical of just about any situation that involved money. So, with $10,000 in my bank account to put on this performance, my internal alarms immediately rang, and I wanted to ask my guitarist, “Where the hell did you find these guys??”

The other fellow was Mike Hogan, who was the recording engineer that I assume worked in the production company that Scott owned called “Neverland Productions.” We met “deez guyz” on the Upper West Side for a sandwich and a beer to discuss numbers — for which they generously picked up the tab. After an hour of explaining exactly our needs — which were manifold and complicated — and then letting them know I had exactly 10K to spend on this, they turned aside and conferred for a bit (how you often see lawyers and judges portrayed in courtroom television dramas), and swung back around and said “We think we can do this, it’ll come out to just under 10K!”

Now, 10K is obviously a lot of dough. And I honestly didn’t know how I was going to navigate or negotiate this whole deal. But my industry-seasoned guitarist was there also to make sure I wasn’t getting ripped off. And I gather once all was said and done — after the concert itself, after the editing and mixing of the tracks, and after the final mastering to prepare the recording for release — that Scott Vid, owner of Neverland Productions, most likely took quite a financial hit to his own profit margin because he truly believed in the product. That is to say, given the extensive audio setup required for the concert itself and then all of the work that went into the recording as well, Scott could have normally probably charged at least 50% more — if not double. But he was immediately visibly excited about the prospect of attaching his name to this novel concert idea. This endeared me to him and allayed my fears. He told me that day after we shook hands that they “guaranteed they were going to exceed my expectations.”

And damn if they didn’t — as that concert, from start to finish, was literally THE SINGLE BEST experience of my life from a sound system point of view, which is obviously the bailiwick of the concert engineer. There was minimal feedback; the sound was crisp and clean; the monitors for the musicians to hear themselves were pristine; I honestly don’t remember a single instance through the entire event that made me question my choice in hiring this outfit. It honestly doesn’t make sense that I was so lucky to have found someone like Scott — who apart from my initial hesitation based simply on the sounds of his speech, turned out to be a highly dedicated perfectionist who put pride in every last minute of minutiae required to master the needs of the evening. If this were a course to be graded in school, Scott’s report card would have reflected an A++. Thinking back to every club I’ve ever played — every gig I’ve ever done — every other sound engineer I’ve ever worked with — he absolutely blew them all out of the water. There is literally no comparison I’ve come across, at least not yet.

So, yes, Scott absolutely exceeded my expectations, as I even mention in the recording itself. If you listen to that portion, you’ll likely  hear reflected in my voice a tinge of emotion as I looked out and locked eyes with those guys letting them know they were absolutely correct.

Scott went one step further because he immediately believed in me, and went out of his way — likely incurring extra cost — to setup an entire second stage simply to feature my band at the annual “Grateful Fest” out on “Lawng eyeland” a month later. And whereas that introduction to those local deadheads didn’t catapult my name into greater community awareness, Scott played his part and did his best to garner further exposure for me. For that, I am eternally grateful.

A few years later, my band booked an evening at Beau’s Bar in Greenlawn, where I had sat in once before with some other friends. Beau’s is a fine place, but I specifically remembered having issues with their sound system because they didn’t provide an audio engineer. So, without hesitation, I asked Scott if he might come and run sound for us — to which he gladly and graciously agreed. If memory serves me well, he basically came in on his day off and worked for beans, as I had little to offer in the way of remuneration. His faith in my music was unshakable and eternal. So, similar to the person I memorialized this past Friday, I guess I could probably safely say he was also one of my biggest fans. And that counts for something, especially when you consider all that he ultimately gave me instead of the usual other way around.

Rest in peace, Scott. You are gone but not forgotten. As a fellow deadhead, we sometimes don’t speak of “heaven” in the hereafter, but instead imagine a hallowed concert hall where Jerry and the others who have passed on are putting on one hell of a performance. If the sound quality of that hall wasn’t already paramount, then I know it got an unexpected upgrade when you showed up on that scene. If I get to hear Jerry playing and singing again in the afterlife, I have a feeling you’ll be the one mixing the monitors into an absolutely angelic acoustic. If afforded the opportunity, I can’t wait to come and plug again into your sound system when my time comes!

💀

Entry #19 Gloria Scott Timberlake (1932-2014)

I haven’t stated this publicly, but of all my creative Patreon offerings, these Death Diaries are absolutely my favorite exercise. So, not that anyone is keeping count or monitoring my meanderings, but I might start trading in one of my “4 weekly blog entries” for a second remembrance each week.

Those who HAVE been following know I have a list of those I've lost that exceeds 90, and that in order to not play favorites, I simply roll 2 dice to decide who I will write about for each entry. That being said, there are plenty of folks on the list with whom I wasn’t incredibly close — and often when those names come up, I think “how much do I really have to say about them?” And whereas I find that the material does present itself — and always brings tears to my eyes by the end of the recollection — there are certain names on that list I am definitely more looking forward to.

I have been wanting to write about Gloria Timberlake since I first started rolling those dice. And, would you believe me if I told you that I literally just last night thought, “WHEN is her name finally going to come up???” Imagine my surprise when I rolled #32 today! I am absolutely thrilled to start this composition right now!!!

But where DO I start, and what can I possibly say about this woman without this turning into a full blown Barnes & Noble biography length work, and still somehow manage to save enough time to prepare for my livestream tonight — in addition to my other current creative social media ventures?

In middle school, I played French horn in band class. In both band and orchestra, certain instruments are in high demand as they are not a top choice for many students. For instance, trumpet and violin players are a dime a dozen, whereas the likes of tuba and double bass are less desirable. So, coming out of middle school, I was apparently already on the radar of the high school marching band, who supposedly were going to recruit me to play the ever-neglected French horn for them the next 4 years. I don’t know how, and I don’t remember why, but apparently someone intervened on my behalf, and for whatever reason, I ended up singing in the high school choir instead. When I look back at the overall trajectory of my life as both human being and musician, this was one of those major turning points.

Gloria Timberlake was the chorus teacher for the 92% black Durham High School, and as a small, skinny white boy in a choir that seemed  closer to 99% black, I was immediately intimidated. In reality, during each of my years in that choir, there were only 3 white kids: myself, my sister who was a year ahead of me, and usually one other token white kid — always someone different, and usually someone who was “blacker than the black kids,” if that makes sense. I have written elsewhere about how my fundamental high school education was fairly poor — the school actually went defunct and transitioned over to magnet school a few years after I graduated — but that I received a cultural schooling that most of my white counterparts will NEVER experience in their entire lives. The Durham High School chorus was the true genesis of that cultural pedagogy.

Again, I was quite intimidated the first time I walked into that room. I guess my sister, who I was never incredibly close with, was my saving grace, and seeing her in the room gave me a modicum of comfort. But other than that, I had no idea what to expect, other than the fact that I loved singing, and was apparently considered pretty good at it even that early on in my career. Then, in walked Gloria Timberlake.

I don’t know how tall this woman actually was, as I was still an inchoate individual, but she seemed like an absolute titan — almost akin to a character out of Lord of the Rings or some such fantasy that features creatures of incredible stature. And I don’t remember if I learned of this incident before first entering that room or thereafter, but apparently — as DHS was a pretty rough place overall — one of the students had tried to attack her a number of years before. And, according to “the legend,” she absolutely KNOCKED that student out onto the floor as a result of this incident. So, I guess “Miss Timberlake,” as she was affectionately known, established and projected a strong presence, cultivated a colossal composure, and rightfully earned absolute control over the entire room. I can only imagine the conversations in the teachers’ lounge from that fateful day, whenever it was.         

With current composition length already in mind, it’s probably best to simply summarize the next four years as expediently as possible. As my first bonafide music teacher, this woman extracted amazing potential from me — not only musically, but personally and developmentally.

I remember going to some local high school music festival as a freshman and singing my first ever public solo — the opening lines to “Who Put The Bomp,” by Barry Mann. Leading up to this personal debut, I was quietly confident and well prepared thanks to Miss Timberlake. What I wasn’t expecting was the sound of my own voice first experienced through amplification — as I heard my tenor timbre crackling and wavering through a microphone, for my first ever introduction to a PA system. Afterwards, my choirmates goaded and mocked me — be it all in good fun — but Gloria simply said “well done, David.” That sort of encouragement went on for four years, as I don’t remember ever hearing anything other than optimism or praise from her.

I also don’t know if everyone in the choir felt this way about her, but to a certain extent, she was like an adoptive mother to me — and to my sister, to be sure. There was one year when, for whatever reason — be it hassle, price, or pine needles — my mother decided we were not going to get a Christmas tree. Gloria got wind of this, took my sister and me into her office and called my mother to inform her that, YES, in fact, we WERE going to get a tree. For some reason, something about that exchange established a true familial bond with this woman. I grew to love her more and more as the years passed.

Gloria recognized something in me that few other teachers did. I was never big on school or really into learning — at least not until after I lazily graduated college on the 5-year plan with a 2.9 GPA, but then sparked an academic fire and went on to another bachelors, 2 masters, magna cum laude all around, a “credit with distinction” thesis part of which was published and has been read by untold souls across the globe, and even a short stint as a college educator myself. But it was surely her guidance, direction, encouragement, and belief in me during my formative phase that ultimately germinated and then grew into that academic grandeur once I found something about which I was truly passionate. However, I remember I absolutely LOVED singing in that choir with that formidable faux family member.

And, OH, the true familial bond that formed with this flock of her students! I may have mentioned this elsewhere but it bears repeating here. As a skinny little white boy in a 92% black inner-city public school, I was an easy target for intimidation. I even remember that, during my sophomore year, some of the white kids in the grade beneath me were jumped on their way home one day. And of course such bullying happened early on to me as well, as I one day found myself cornered by some big baddie in some secluded stairwell on my way to class. BUT at that very moment, the entire bass section from the choir — who numbered half a dozen and all just so happened to be on the varsity football team — materialized out of nowhere as if by magic and simply said to the perpetrator, “YO - you give this guy trouble, and you’re gonna get some trouble of your own! THIS ONE’S OFF LIMITS.” So, you see, I literally HAD A POSSE in high school. And if that posse were akin to the mafia, then Miss Timberlake was the Godmother. You just knew not to mess around with her.

It’s funny, because as I sit here and compose this remembrance today, I have nothing but fond memories of Gloria, and I realize what an absolute stalwart she was in my overall development. But, also in preparing this epistle, I just spent an hour digging through my old high school keepsakes and came across the Durham High School 1990 Seniors’ “Last Will & Testament,” and the first thing I “willed” was “my ability to put up with Miss Timberlake to James Richardson.”

So, I gather in reading that, she must have been quite the taskmaster for my entire four years. But the result of her leaning on me and demanding nothing but my best resulted in the following personal output and accomplishments in a mere four years, both musical and otherwise:

1987 Outstanding achievement in Chorus I

1988 Solo for DHS Annual Christmas Concert

1988 Outstanding achievement in Chorus II

1989 Solo for DHS Spring Musical Review

1989 Runner-up for Mr. Homecoming

1989 NC Music Educators Association - High School Honor Chorus

1989 All-State Choral Festival and Concert

1989 Outstanding achievement in Chorus III

1990 Outstanding achievement in Chorus IV

1990 National Beta Club Competition - 1st Place Individual Talent

1990 Front Page Awards: In recognition for being among Durham and Orange Counties’ most talented and gifted high school seniors in Music

1990 All-State Choral Festival and Concert

1990 DHS Spring Musical Review, performing an original song

1990 Durham Public Education Celebration - Spotlight on Education

1990 Durham County Schools Scholarship Foundation: An Evening of Entertainment w/ solo

1990 Durham City Schools 9th Annual Retirement Dinner w/ solo

1990 Performed 2 original songs at Senior Baccalaureate Service

1990 Domino’s Pizza Leadership Achievement Awards Certificate

1990 Choir Senior with Highest Average cumulative for 4 years

1990 T. H. Claggett Award: Most Outstanding Senior - Vocal Music

1990 John Sprunt Hill Leadership Award - a HUGE surprise, awarded by faculty consensus at graduation

1990 Brightleaf Music Workshop Scholar - one of 12 singers chosen for highly competitive “demonstration group” to serve as role models for 500+ workshop participants in middle and high school

Upon coming across all of this — and a lot more — today, I think it’s safe to say that Gloria Timberlake had an absolutely incredible, lasting, profound impact on me as both singer and humanitarian. I’m positive she is one of those in my past who pushed me to the limit in face of obstinate resistance, who whenever I said “I can’t,” responded “not only CAN you, but you WILL.” Simply put, she demonstrably didn’t take shit from anyone. I guess I was willing to oblige the lady who once saved Christmas.

As a result, she cultivated the highest level of of competence and confidence in myself as a musician, which eventually spilled over into literally every other aspect of my life and subsequently saw me excel at anything I ever put my talent, mind, desire, and dedication into.

Rest in peace, Miss Timberlake. You are gone but not forgotten. I can’t begin to imagine what you brought to the table when you first found yourself in that afterlife. I might even bet that if that higher power — whatever it is — actually takes vacations, that your name would be at the very top of a short list to step in and fill those shoes for a spell. Hell, we could really use you back down here for a bit, to knock some holy sense into some of these boorish backsliders who currently have completely strayed away from humanity’s highest aspirations. In my mind, you were the highest of what humanity has to offer, and we’re falling a little short on that right now. I will do what I can to carry your torch for as long as I live and breathe. I owe at least that much to you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything you instilled in me.

💀

Entry #20 The Reverend Charles Thomas Midyette III (1940-2020)

Another day ending in “y,” another clergy remembrance! Also another “Superman” from my own childhood. The only thing missing was the cape! Which was swapped out for a chasuble.

Tom Midyette was the rector at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church in Durham, NC, where I came of age as a young Christian. Honestly, that was so long ago that I don’t even remember what we called him. Father Tom? Father Midyette? Reverend? I doubt we just called him “Tom” at that point in our young lives, as we were taught the respect requisite of southerners, not only for elders but for clergy especially.

But whereas many clergy demurely demand or else attempt to earn said respect through posturing or pious performance, Tom easily attained admiration through being one of the most down to earth men of the cloth I’ve come across to this day. As you can tell if you’ve been following this remembrance project, I’ve know many clergy throughout my life, due to always being involved in the church in one way or another. But, simply put, Tom was one of the coolest.

One thing that can be said about a church rector is that their personality pervades the entire institution, at least during their incumbency. A typical search process for the right rector can take upwards of 18 months — but this is because once the parish calls someone to this position, they are literally “stuck with them.” And some rectors end up staying in the position for over 20 years. So, often every detail of the religious organization is dictated by the head honcho. This can absolutely cripple a congregation and stultify the staff if you ultimately find yourselves with buyer’s remorse.

But the opposite occurrence exists as well sometimes, as a parish welcoming their new priest might find themselves prizewinners for possibly decades. And St. Philip’s was clearly one such case. Tom’s tenure at this inner-city sanctuary saw an incredible expansion of their urban ministry outreach, a rotating cast of likewise cool and caring clergy, a staff that seemed united and focused on all fronts, a visibly vibrant team of volunteers, numerous social networking groups, a damn fine music and active choir program — and most importantly to me, a close-knit kick-ass youth group that showed steady growth throughout my 6 year stint.

Tom was ultimately responsible for ALL of this, as his method of ministry and his procedural approach to the actual organization of the church was anchored in charisma, collaboration, and caritas. His demeanor dictated that whoever you were, you were welcome, and all were ultimately part of the same extended family. You definitely sensed he didn’t think himself special just because he wore a collar. He was simply “tending his flock” as best he knew how, and was highly successful in creating a warm, nurturing environment in which all could flourish. Not all rectors reserve the right to be called “beloved,” but this one sure earned it.   

Tom’s door was also always open. I remember not only how comfortable we youth felt in his office, but how humorous he was even to the point of being able to comedically connect with children. I was lucky enough to reconnect with Tom shortly before he passed on, while visiting my family in Beaufort, NC, where Tom ultimately landed after retirement. And I remember he had my entire family in stitches within minutes with his “priestly potty mouth.” Being a clergy member affords one some degree of dispensation when it comes to comedic material. And he was just as humorous as I remembered from decades ago, but sans the filters required in the face of the faithful flock. Nope, that was ostensibly out the window long ago, and he could just let it fly as he saw fit. He had earned that right as well!

Yet that funny father figure possessed not only a saucy sense of humor, but also the sanguineness of a saint — as he definitely knew when to stop the banter and get down to brass tacks. And one of the greatest charges of the clergy is that of pastoral care, comfort, and confidentiality. Tom displayed such care with abandon as he shepherded my entire family through a critical time of crisis at one point. And at that point in particular, I realized how powerful this humble servant of God truly was. He was the real deal — the total priestly package.     

Rest in peace, Father Tom. You are gone but not forgotten. I don’t believe you died FROM covid, but you did die DURING covid. And thus, your family was forced to postpone for a bit your final celebration of life. I would hazard a guess that, if the afterlife includes angels temporarily fluttering around ministering to the masses before we officially send them off to the great beyond for good, then perhaps the world simply needed you around a bit longer. In that regard, you outlived your shelf life, defying your expiration date to stay here and finish whatever remaining work with which you were tasked. Who knows, maybe you’re still somehow here even now? One can hope so.

💀

Entry #21 Jennifer Bush Lawson (1975-2014)

This is another one of those heartbreaking entries focusing on someone taken way too soon from this earth.

I never really got to know — or even spend much time with — this incredible woman, but can call her incredible nonetheless because of not only the sheer joy she radiated in the limited encounters we did share, but also through witnessing the powerful love and warmth cultivated through her family.   

Jennifer Bush ended up being the beautiful bride of my childhood friend and next door neighbor, Neal Lawson. I had not yet even met her by the time I joined in Las Vegas for Neal’s bachelor party, but I was recruited to sing for their wedding and was thus invited to fly to the wild west to participate in that debaucherous time-honored tradition of celebrating a man’s last moments of freedom before they “walk the plank.” I know what happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas, but I’ll break with that classic custom and tell the world that Neal was incredibly well behaved, and did nothing to sully his upcoming nuptials. And why the hell would he? Jennifer was a strikingly lovely woman, whose beauty was bested only by the indelible aura that followed in her footsteps.

Her smile was to die for — and I could tell immediately that Neal had hit the jackpot, so he ultimately didn’t even need to go to Vegas. As I’ve said about others in these writings, I’m sure she experienced pain, anguish, trauma, etc., and I’m sure this married couple fought occasionally as all couples do. But you would never know it, based on how the two comported themselves in your presence, and especially when you were around their progeny. They simply exuded a familial love and cohesion rarely seen in society these days.

I recall the moment with pristine clarity when I got the call about the traffic accident that took this woman’s life, and remember not understanding why I experienced such an abrupt emotional response for someone I honestly barely knew. Perhaps it was pain shared with my childhood friend. Maybe it was that too-often employed adage of someone whisked from the world too early. But most likely it was for their three remarkable children — and knowing that, in the blink of an eye, their mother was just gone. Forever.     

In full circle fashion, I was tapped to sing for her last service. As a side note, I have always preferred funerals to weddings, ultimately for the finality and closure of the event. Whereas wedding vows are a touching, celebratory occasion drenched in the drama of true, lasting love, let’s face it: there is no guarantee that particular love will endure. Funerals, on the other hand, are the last stop on the line for those being celebrated — and eulogies are always heartfelt without holding back. It’s the last chance to speak one’s mind about the dearly departed, and often includes a witty aphorism, humorous hearkening, or a heart wrenching remembrance.

With that being said, I have sung for countless weddings and funerals, both. And whereas I proclaim to prefer the latter, I have always said that I will only continue to cantor at such services until I reach a point where I am too overcome emotionally to complete the task at hand. Meaning, if ever I find myself in a position where I literally can’t complete my given charge due to crying, then that will be my last funeral as a soloist.

So the day I arrived and saw the leaflet, I was convinced this would be that final foray into funerals for me as I was scheduled to sing immediately after the eulogy — a typical slot for a solo, but not ideal especially when there is a personal connection. And this one couldn’t have been more personal, as the bereaved husband — my friend since the playground days — decided to deliver the eulogy himself.

I honestly had no idea how I would make it through this impending musical moment, as I felt my own tears welling up while this stalwart speaker somehow managed to eloquently enunciate this final tribute for his fallen bride — all whilst his oldest of three, of a mere six years, only then visibly started to display a heartrending realization of what his father was conveying. But Neal somehow magically made it through this self-appointed task, and I simply thought to myself, “If HE can make it through this, then I DAMN sure need to be able to follow suit.” I took strength in his composure and meagerly managed to deliver what felt like the most tenuous tenor solo I had ever eked out. But I was somehow successful in the end, and to that end I do still sing for funerals when asked. Perhaps Jennifer was lingering there, to see all of us — me, her husband, her children, her family and friends — through this very unexpected and tragic turn of life events. But I will never forget that little boy breaking down in the midst of that remembrance of mommy.

Neal eventually remarried into a bona fide Brady Bunch family, and that little boy will be in college soon — followed quickly thereafter by his already accomplished siblings. Jennifer has been physically gone for eleven years now, but her memory is certainly alive and well — with the fabulous family she helped nurture; here with me as I write this recollection; and with the greater community to boot, as Neal dedicated some of his financial success to start a foundation in her memory with a mission “to improve prenatal care and support for underprivileged mothers in our community.” You can read all about and support the Jennifer Bush Lawson Foundation here.

Rest in peace, Jennifer. You are gone but not forgotten. I wish I was afforded the opportunity to know you more personally, but for someone several states away who had drifted apart a bit from his old childhood chum, I feel incredibly blessed I was there to serve as a soundtrack for two of the most sacred events of your existence. I smile here, today, knowing that somehow you still linger in the lives of your love and your lineage. And I know they feel it, too — as time moves on but memories are carried with us forever. Thank you for making this world a better place — even through your passing, which continues to promote philanthropy for underprivileged parents to this day. Your life was a blessing to me, even at the very bottom of the totem pole.

💀

Entry #22 Jeremy Ellis Fountain (1981-2023)

Jeremy Fountain was, as they say, quite the character. I knew him very briefly before he passed, and only really hung out with him on one occasion. I came to know Jeremy as one of the drummers of “Spartans Play Dead,” an ad hoc band of cover musicians assembled for the 30 year anniversary of the birth of the “Grateful Dead Scholars” movement. Perhaps that requires a bit of backstory before I proceed.

In 1989, Professor Rebecca Adams, considered by many to be the “Grandmother of Grateful Dead Academic Studies,” offered a sociology course at my alma mater of UNC-Greensboro. The course involved taking a class full of summer school sociology students on an entire monthlong tour with the Grateful Dead, with the premise that they would each attend half of the shows — and that for the other half they would wander around the infamous parking lot scene full of hippies, interviewing folks and doing actual sociological research, since the community of deadheads had by then made a name for themselves nationwide as a bizarre countercultural phenomenon that traversed from city to city to see as many Dead shows as possible.

This course was, of course, lambasted by conservative philanthropic boosters from the community who threatened to withhold their donations to the university for offering this liberal hippie nonsense for college credit. Little did those detractors know that Adams’ course would eventually go on to spawn scholars across the academy who wrote about this phenomenon from every academic discipline imaginable — from sociology and statistics to music theory and history, from religious studies to literature, mythology, and poetry, and everything in between. 30 years later, credit was given where due and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro held a 3 day symposium celebrating this scholarship and, specifically, the impact it had on higher education in general, with Masters and PhD level students producing interdisciplinary theses and dissertations from the likes of Harvard, Duke, Penn State, Villanova, Fordham, UC-Berkeley, Wesleyan, Johns Hopkins, University of Illinois, Ohio State, Princeton, Stockholm University, Cornell, University of Toronto, etc.

As part of this celebration of the impact UNCG had on this underground social movement over three decades, the decision was also made to form a band to celebrate the music of the subject at hand — with the stipulation that inclusion in the band was limited to those with direct ties to UNCG. And what an interesting concept that was, as it brought together a bunch of fantastic musicians comprised of current and former faculty, alumni, current students, and even general employees of the university. I remember one fellow in particular found his way into this ragtag bunch simply by being employed in the engineering department at the time.

Jeremy, who had graduated from UNCG with a Bachelor of Science in Sociology many years before, found his way into this band. This is where I met him, as I had traveled down from NYC to join this group as well as to present on my seminal work on Grateful Dead Theology.

He immediately struck me as a perfect fit for this outfit — especially because of his outfit, which if I remember correctly, was basically full on drag similar to Jon Fishman, the drummer of Phish who usually wears a dress on stage. Previous to the current administration’s assault on those who like to wear clothes of the gender opposite of that assigned at their birth, it seemed like there was a short period of time in American history during which many folks would “cross dress” with full feeling of freedom and comfort without fear of attack or disdain. And Jeremy was one such individual who was comfortable enough in his own skin to wear whatever the hell he wanted, and he did so with pizazz and flair.

I have always respected those who can step out of their comfort zone and rebuff the conservative naysayers who try to dictate what people should wear, how they must act, and who they need to be. And so I had an intense admiration for this very colorful character who, in addition to deliberately letting his freak flag fly, was also an incredible percussionist who honestly seemed to hold together this temporary troupe of troubadours with expert percussive precision. One glance through his obituary supports this summary of his musicianship, as he apparently had become a stalwart regular in the music scene of Greensboro over many years.

Musicians in general — and those connected to the Dead in particular — are infamously known for their partying, especially after gigs. I had the honor of spending an evening partying with a small group of those from the Spartans Play Dead band after one of our two gigs before packed houses, and thus got to spend some quality time with Jeremy late into that evening. The person I got to know ever so briefly that night was, simply put, an incredibly warm and highly entertaining soul full of charisma, comedy, and compassion. I am terribly sad that this was the only time I was ever afforded the opportunity to be present in his company, as he had me in stitches throughout the night with his brazen antics.

As Mickey Hart walked off the stage in Chicago at the end of the 50 year “Fare Thee Well” celebration of the Grateful Dead in 2015, he stepped up to the microphone and said, “I'll leave you with this: Please, be kind.” Of all the deadheads I’ve ever met, Jeremy was one of the kindest. I guess, as is the case with several of these remembrances, that’s why he was taken so soon from us.       

Rest in peace, Jeremy. You are gone but not forgotten. “In another time’s forgotten space,” I assume and hope that I will see you again. Until then, I’m sure you’re still letting that freak flag fly in the great beyond. There is likely a special section in that realm for all those “disorderly” deadheads, and I’m sure you found your way there, and have made many friends who are equally taken with your charisma as I was for an all-too brief evening here in this plane of existence.

💀

Entry #23 Dr. Eleanor Fowler McCrickard (1940-2023)

I’ve previously written a good number of remembrances for folks who had a strong hand in my spiritual and emotional development. Eleanor McCrickard is the first entry for someone who had an intense impact on my intellectual development.

I had only one class with Dr. McCrickard, but will never forget my short time spent with her. She was a member of the UNCG School of Music faculty for thirty years and chair of the Composition, History, and Theory Division for twelve. Initially an accomplished musician in her own right, she ended up carving out a niche for herself, becoming one of the world’s foremost experts on the music of Alessandro Stradella.

I went to a poor high school, and was never a real academic standout, ultimately graduating with a B- average. So, when I matriculated into UNCG, I carried many terrible learning skills and found myself quickly behind the curve. To be sure, I did learn quite a few undesirable academic tricks such as the memorization/regurgitation technique, but these only served to further keep me in the “low B” classification, and as I waded through college party life, my grades began to slip further.

During the spring semester in my fourth year — as I was such a mediocre student that I was on the 5-year plan — I had a particularly miserable academic performance and finally failed my first class ever, in addition to getting a D+ in another class. This presented me with my first authentic academic crossroads moment to think about life, what I wanted, what I was doing, and who I wanted to be. I decided I didn’t want to be the kind of student to get such poor grades, so I cleaned up my act, pulled myself up by my bootstraps and entered that final year with focus and determination. This is when I met Dr. McCrickard.

That first semester of my final year was by far the most interesting schooling I had ever encountered. In fact, it really was the lynchpin for my subsequent academic explosion, because for the first time I experienced a true multidisciplinary approach to history. And it was FASCINATING.

Apart from final classes required to get my music degree, I signed up for “Western Civilization 102,” the generic survey course spanning the Renaissance to the present. For an elective, I stumbled upon “The History of Witchcraft and Magic in Europe,” which focused on the formal “Witch Craze Era” from 1450 to 1750. And then, on a whim, I enrolled in Eleanor McCrickard’s music history class entitled “The Baroque Period,” which covered what was taking place in the Classical music world from 1600-1750. So, you see, I ended up taking three disparate classes that all focused heavily on the same two centuries. I had just recently in summer school taken the music history class dedicated to the Romantic period, and had fallen in love with Classical music history — which is why I decided to delve into McCrickard’s Baroque period class. However, this was a graduate level class, so I was excited but terribly nervous as I ended up being the only undergraduate in a class full of ostensibly smarty-pants music scholars.

Dr. McCrickard initially dispelled my discomfort by reaching me the best way possible — through music — as she introduced us to the John Eliot Gardiner recording of Claudio Monteverdi’s “Orfeo,” the first opera of note ever composed. Those opening chords sent chills down my spine, and I was immediately hooked — so much so that I have owned that particular recording ever since, and have found enjoyment in it on many occasions. (It’s actually one of those perfect pieces to shake off one’s cobwebs first thing in the morning, if anyone in my audience is in need of a particular panacea for that problem!)    

However, fresh off that long semester of piss poor grades, and having only recently had the academic spark lit within me, I was petrified to realize her teaching style was that in-your-face on-the-spot Socratic method I eventually grew to know and love. But this was really my first small seminar, and surrounded by graduate students at that, so I quickly backslid into my old ways — including deflecting when called upon.

THIS was Eleanor McCrickard’s defining moment in my life. After a few classes, I specifically remember her calling on me to answer a particular question, to which I responded “Umm, I don’t know,” as I felt like a deer in headlights, afraid to “look the part” of the one clueless undergrad in the class. This was going to be so embarrassing! But not so from her perspective. I don’t remember what all she said or did — apart from immediately confidently snapping “YES YOU DO!” —  but she somehow elicited the correct answer from me, and publicly rewarded me with a “That’s VERY good, David!”

That moment. That one singular defining moment.

Once I knew I could “hang” with the big dogs, I was in full swing. And throughout the rest of the semester, she was gracious, encouraging, captivating, approachable, and affable.

She was a seeming fountain of esoteric knowledge which she poured into my brain as I continued to eat it up. Every class discussion I was a part of, and every paper which she commented on with uplifting acuity, further deepened my drive to succeed — and to prove to her, my parents, all those graduate students, and especially myself, that I BELONGED. I ended up earning an A- in this graduate level class, and made the Dean’s List for the first time in my career. Those who follow me closely know that it was off to the races after that for me.

I had finally found my calling, and it was honestly mostly because of this one moment with this one amazing educator and mentor.  And, I'd like to say, friend -- as I even made it a point to drop in and say hi to her well after graduating.  

Rest in peace, Eleanor McCrickard. You are gone but not forgotten. Knowledge really is power, and the current state of our country would be in a much better place if the likes of you was placed at the head of every class in America to INSIST that every student CAN do it. It is strange that one educator you spend only one semester with can have such an impact. But, that you did. If for some reason I don’t find my way to a Grateful Dead gathering in the next phase, then I sure as hell hope to hang out with you and your ilk in the scholar’s corner.

💀

Entry #24 Richard Keane Ambrose Jr. (1947-2010)

Richard “Dick” Ambrose was a relative of mine. I won’t go into the layers of genealogical details as the familial connection itself isn’t necessarily important for public consumption, so I’ll just say I always thought of him as one of my uncles — even though he was only in my  familial orbit due to marriage.

After 23 entries in these Death Diaries, we’ve learned about quite a few folks who “went too soon,” those who were “taken way too early” from us. And Dick likewise departed this earth long before he should have. But this is the first entry I’ve authored that deals with someone for whom that departure was a conscious decision.

It’s interesting that his number came up today, as upon scanning his obituary, it appears his birthday was just yesterday. In a fair world that always made sense, his immediate family — with an additional generation now in tow — would likely have been celebrating that birth just last night, with him blowing out that annoyingly ever increasing number of candles that old folks like to joke about. Unfortunately, Dick had other intentions.

My memories of Dick are that of an incredibly warm, friendly fellow who constantly had a smile on his face, and seemingly always made it a point to check in with everyone at our family reunions. Even my own father has stated that Dick was the most gregarious in our extended family, and he spoke of how much he always enjoyed catching up with him in particular at those events. To be sure, families — especially large family gatherings — are usually accompanied by a bit of stress, a tad of anxiety, and a generous helping of “overwhelming,” as there are always many people there, of at least four generations — sometimes five. To add to that, my extended family had a healthy helping of dysfunction, and our gatherings were rarely without at least some modicum of drama, even if said drama took place behind closed doors. Regardless, as my father hinted, Dick almost seemed like “the rock” of the entire family. Which is why my mind was numb when I heard he took his own life. It simply didn’t make sense.

I don’t know all the details of this decision to take his own life. And I do hope his surviving family will grant* me some leeway after the fact to publicly discuss what I do know, as in the end, I guess it did ultimately make sense. Because, again, when I first heard of this event, I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. But, it wasn’t my struggle, so my reaction or feelings don’t really enter into it whatsoever. (Note: granted.)

I heard that Dick had left a note — as most hopefully do or would in such painful circumstances. I never saw this note myself, as it was a private missive to his closest family. So, as I said, I don’t know all the details. But what I did pick up was that his eldest son at the time, just shy of my age by a few years, seemed to fully understand and ultimately to accept Dick’s decision after reading and fully digesting this note.

You see, Dick was a big dude. Not overweight by any stretch of the imagination, but he just had a large body. If I remember correctly, he was likely the tallest member in attendance at those reunions. And I believe that he had played football either in high school or perhaps even college, and that to bear such a great frame throughout adulthood after having abused one’s body through the fullest of full contact sports finally started to catch up with his aging body, and he simply couldn’t bear the nagging, exacerbating physical pain anymore. And this was the impetus for his ultimate action.

To this author, even through my acceptance, this is the hardest pill to swallow about this life ending event. You see, we have all either personally lost someone to suicide or at the very least seen it on the big screen, in which a “terribly troubled person” simply “can’t overcome their demons anymore,” and so they choose the only path they feel is readily available. But these scenarios are always about some kind of mental anguish. Dick’s suicide was the first (and possibly only to date?) I have heard about in which it was purely physical demons that caused the haunting.

Throughout my time of knowing this grand man, I could tell that his family was his absolute pride and joy. It was readily apparent in the very visible love he and his wonderful wife shared, and especially on and in the faces, smiles, and laughs of his two incredibly well adjusted children — and even the occasional eye roll elicited from them when he would land the perfect dad joke. I can’t imagine having that taken away in the face of what presented as a fully functioning healthy sustainable family surrounded by true joy and appreciation of one another rarely seen in public in such pronounced fashion. But I’ve also never experienced constant unrelenting excruciating physical pain, so I would have no basis for understanding his decision — or for not being able to accept it myself, given his immediate family “got it” one way or another. Either way, it broke my heart. And I was really just some distant relative who enjoyed being in his presence for a nice long conversation merely two or three times per year.

Rest in peace, Dick. You are gone but not forgotten. Richard Ambrose, the life of the party, father extraordinaire. You weren’t MY great uncle, but you were definitely A great uncle, with a sweet southern drawl that made me feel at home whenever I would return to NC from NYC for family gatherings. I don’t know how much of a religious person you were, but I imagine when the morning came around to finally carry out that last act — most assuredly with much mental pain and anguish knowing what you were leaving for your family — that you had faith that you would be reunited with them eventually. Perhaps our whole extended family will find our way to each other at some point. If I find myself in some familiar familial hall after my exit, I’ll look for the tallest guy in the room, or listen for the best dad joke!

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Entry #25 Christopher Charles Roselli (1961-2017)

I don’t constantly scour my list of the departed, so honestly I often forget who is actually on it, as it is quite long — and continually growing. So, it repeatedly pains me to be reminded of those who have passed on way too early. Enter Christopher Roselli, stage right. 

This will likely be one of my shorter posts as I didn’t know Chris very well, but I was still heartbroken to hear of his passing, given that he died at such an early age, at only 55 years young. 

I have often been told that I look “incredibly young for my age.” I’m not sure if it’s good genes, healthy living, never having had children, or just plain dumb luck, but I always consider this a compliment. One look at the photo below, and I imagine Chris heard this same phrase verbatim throughout his years on earth. Even though he died at an age which I’m swiftly approaching, I never would have guessed he was 5 years past half a century old. 

Again, I didn’t know this professional choral colleague well at all, but I’d probably add that one’s youthful appearance can also be attributed to one’s outlook on existence — and Chris also didn’t “act his age,” which further elucidates why he presented as so much younger. That is not to say he was immature whatsoever. I’m imagining something more along the lines of an approach to life and living like that portrayed in Dan Millman’s “Way of the Peaceful Warrior,” or perhaps the movie “Being There.” Meaning, perhaps the energy one exudes —  in the face of all the personal and collective hardships and atrocities experienced through life — can dictate how they are perceived by others. I’m thinking some kind of Buddhist spark here. 

Perhaps there is some truth to how crinkles and wrinkles and crow’s feet are a direct result of stress, anxiety, anger, etc. And with such a thought, it’s understandable how someone like Christopher could appear so young regardless of age. He came across to me as an old soul with a youthful glow — someone who seemed like they were thoroughly entertained by life and living. 

I had the honor and pleasure of getting to know him in particular at one of our “choral summer camps,” also known as the Bard Music Festival — an annual event when singers from the city would be in residence upstate at Bard College to perform difficult, rather obscure choral works with the American Symphony Orchestra. A far cry from the standard repertoire of Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, etc., this festival was dedicated to busting out compositions by composers  rarely heard in public performance, such as Schönberg, Janáček, and Martinů. So, we worked unbelievably hard at each of these festivals, but we also played hard, as the old cliche goes. 

I fondly remember in particular spending one evening with a slightly debaucherous small clique of singers during one of those weeks, as we frolicked around the Bard grounds during a nonpareil lovely summer evening, sharing some tasty libations and acting exactly how you might imagine a bunch of classical singers acting if they were basically on a weeklong work-vacation trip with lots of booze in tow. And Christopher seemed almost like our unofficially designated captain for that evening. I can’t remember what the hell was so hilarious and entertaining from that experience, but it’s one of those nights I’ll never forget. 

Think of the number of dinners you’ve had over the course of your life. You can’t remember nearly any of them, right? But there are a healthy number of standouts that you still fondly recall, even decades after the fact. I guess Christopher — and that particularly boisterous Bard evening — was kind of like one of those meals. Again, I’m not sure why, but that memory stands out — and I assume it always will. Perhaps it was that Buddhist spark mentioned earlier. Perhaps it was just the fact that this particular evening was the first time I really got to know him, and I simply realized that he was definitely someone worth knowing. All I know is it involved some rowdy classical musician friends blowing off some steam with a little alcohol (perhaps more than a little?) at the end of a long hard day’s work, which all of my choral colleagues will surely attest is like something wholly unique in its own right — something that nobody else could ever understand or appreciate. I wish I could have had more nights like that with this “young” man. He was a real hoot. 

Rest in peace, Christopher. You are gone but not forgotten. In most of these remembrances, I close with some sort of “nod to an afterlife,” imagining that we will all find one another again at some point somewhere. Specifically, with my demonstrably Christian friends who have moved on, I lean a bit into “that” heaven at this point of closure. And you might have been a full blown Christian, but yours is the first remembrance that elicits more of a Dionysian destination — and I love you all the more for that. I hope after I’m gone that I’ll be fondly remembered by some like a past great meal or a night of silly debauchery as well. I would consider it an honor to follow in your footsteps in this way. 

💀

Author's note: Many of you are seeing this blog entry as part of your "rewards" for supporting my Patreon page at the $3 a month "Straycat Salon" tier. As stated above, this particular project began in 2022, thus it falls under the category of "already out there in the public sphere." 

The rest of this project will soon migrate to the Patreon page with limited audience access. If you particularly like what you have read here, I hope you'll consider joining the $20 "Clowder Clique" tier to unlock the weekly posts that will be added to this series (as well as access to a daily blog and weekly music livestream!) I've lost close to 90 people in my life, so there are plenty of remembrances to come. 

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