I was thinking about smalltown nostalgia, about the America of my parents generation that doesnt quite exist anymore. In a story I wrote some years ago, our family doctor, husband to one of my mothers best friends, shows up, he actually did housecalls, then would sit and gossip, hed sweep into my sickbed room on a cloud of pipe smoke, which he always smoked, there was so much of it I mused he thought it therapeutic, he was there at my birth, he diagnosed my appendectomy at ten, and did the surgery, he examined me when I went off to college, but what made him a character in my story was that when I turned around in church at Christmas midnight mass and looked up at the choir in the balcony there he was doing a massstopping solo of oh holy night! My family doctor, choir star. So today I find out his widow, one of my mothers two or three best friends, who lived their whole lives within six blocks of each other, died last month. This woman undoubtedly knew me very well, she was there in the background of every single event in my life, even tho its not quite accurate to say I knew her. I mentioned my mother said something to me in my sleep night before last, I can only think now that Marianne, my mother, was telling me, Mariana, who was with my mother at her death bed in 1987, deserves a shout out of thanks from our family. After 37 years, the bffs together again. ps, everyone from my childhood world is waked at the same funeral parlor. Like I said, small world. RIP. feerickfuneralhome/notices.php?id=1386
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 19:02:04 +0000
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