Black Saturday
There were 42 of us that graduated together back in 1958. There are 37 of us left. One went in a bar fight, they say, the other four from cancer.
I got a call on Friday from Dan, who, bless him, facilitates and coordinates everything for the rest of us in the class. Seems like Denny has had cancer for over five years, had not told anyone except his family, and was in the hospital with only days to live. It was too late on Friday for me to go, but I made plans for Saturday.
Saturday morning, Marian, Robin, and I went to the St. Louis Art Museum to see an exhibition of pictorial photographs. The web site for the museum says this about pictorialism:
“Using soft-focus lenses and hand-made materials, Pictorial photographers produced beautiful and engaging photographs. Dedicated to the creation of photographs that look like paintings or drawings, these artists were among the first to elevate photography to the status of fine art.”
Later, I went to lunch by myself, delaying what I wanted to and had to do. Going to see Denny was very much in soft focus for me. He certainly qualifies as a hand-made person, unique. But I was having a hard time thinking about being there with him, looking him in the eyes and talking to him. We’re not close, just fellow horsemen and classmates who share experiences and are part of a group planning our 50th reunion. We had put together a big 45th reunion since we had asked ourselves: Who else is going to die in the next five years? Two have so far.
When I got to the hospital, another classmate, Charlie, was there as were Denny’s son and daughter. Denny had just been given a dose of morphine. Charlie yelled at Denny: “Hey, Black, Bud Hirsch is here.” Denny, on his side, eyes partially open but not moving, mumbled my name. But he quickly started snoring and remained that way the rest of the time I was there. That was our whole conversation.
His son told me Denny would be released on Monday and they were trying to figure out where to take him. After talking with his son about photography and computers and listening to stories from his daughter, I said goodbye to Denny. His eyes were open, but it was impossible to know if he heard me.
Charlie and I went downstairs and into the parking lot and stood talking for a half an hour. We talked about school, “Sophie Scholl: The Final Days,” anti-Semitism when we went to school, and Denny. We reflected on the luck that brought us to be standing in the parking lot, warming in the sun, talking to one another.
Charlie wants me to write some poems for our 50th emphasizing the good memories, getting away from the ones that seem to haunt my poems about that time. I agreed.
Then I drove home slowly, the long way, and sat down to draft a poem about all of this.
Dan called after dinner to tell me that Denny had passed…an interesting turn of phrase.
I got a call on Friday from Dan, who, bless him, facilitates and coordinates everything for the rest of us in the class. Seems like Denny has had cancer for over five years, had not told anyone except his family, and was in the hospital with only days to live. It was too late on Friday for me to go, but I made plans for Saturday.
Saturday morning, Marian, Robin, and I went to the St. Louis Art Museum to see an exhibition of pictorial photographs. The web site for the museum says this about pictorialism:
“Using soft-focus lenses and hand-made materials, Pictorial photographers produced beautiful and engaging photographs. Dedicated to the creation of photographs that look like paintings or drawings, these artists were among the first to elevate photography to the status of fine art.”
Later, I went to lunch by myself, delaying what I wanted to and had to do. Going to see Denny was very much in soft focus for me. He certainly qualifies as a hand-made person, unique. But I was having a hard time thinking about being there with him, looking him in the eyes and talking to him. We’re not close, just fellow horsemen and classmates who share experiences and are part of a group planning our 50th reunion. We had put together a big 45th reunion since we had asked ourselves: Who else is going to die in the next five years? Two have so far.
When I got to the hospital, another classmate, Charlie, was there as were Denny’s son and daughter. Denny had just been given a dose of morphine. Charlie yelled at Denny: “Hey, Black, Bud Hirsch is here.” Denny, on his side, eyes partially open but not moving, mumbled my name. But he quickly started snoring and remained that way the rest of the time I was there. That was our whole conversation.
His son told me Denny would be released on Monday and they were trying to figure out where to take him. After talking with his son about photography and computers and listening to stories from his daughter, I said goodbye to Denny. His eyes were open, but it was impossible to know if he heard me.
Charlie and I went downstairs and into the parking lot and stood talking for a half an hour. We talked about school, “Sophie Scholl: The Final Days,” anti-Semitism when we went to school, and Denny. We reflected on the luck that brought us to be standing in the parking lot, warming in the sun, talking to one another.
Charlie wants me to write some poems for our 50th emphasizing the good memories, getting away from the ones that seem to haunt my poems about that time. I agreed.
Then I drove home slowly, the long way, and sat down to draft a poem about all of this.
Dan called after dinner to tell me that Denny had passed…an interesting turn of phrase.
posted by Bud Hirsch at 9:43 PM
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