January 15th, 1994 It was late Saturday morning in New Hampshire, when the phone rang. Hello? There was a slight pause, then I heard a womans voice on the other end. Zak? Its Una, she said. I immediately knew there was something wrong, her voice was higher than usual and it sounded like she had been crying. Whats wrong? Its Harry, she sniffed. Hes gone. She broke into tears, and I stood silent as I realized what she meant. What happened? I asked softly. He was very sick. He... he passed in his sleep a few hours ago. Oh, god. Im so sorry, I said, as I felt my face become numb. I had never lost a parent before, and I didnt know he was as sick as he was. It came as a surprise to me. I didnt know what else to say. I was at a complete loss for words as it began to sink in that I would never be able to talk to him again, to see him again, to hear any of his jokes or simply to know that I had a father. I dont really remember what happened with Una on the phone after that, I think we finally somehow said our goodbyes and we hung up. I was in shock. We had the TV on for the rest of the day, and all day long on news programs, talk shows etc. there were mentions of his death. I began to get phone calls in the afternoon, and emails, and people wanted to tell me they were sorry for me, and I was glad to have friends that cared at that time. I needed it. Out of all of Harrys kids, I was the oldest at 23 years old. Oscar, the youngest, was only two. As hard as it was for me, I could only imagine how hard it must have been for them, all still teenagers or younger, and all still living at home. I felt horrible that we had all lost our father, a man who loved us all. I called to get plane tickets to Los Angeles. Monday, January 17th, 1994 We drove down to Logan airport in Boston to get our flight to LAX, and we boarded without incident. We had our luggage stowed, our seat belts on and we were waiting to taxi out to the runway when the captain’s voice came over the PA. “Uh, folks, we’re going to be delayed for a bit here. We’ve just heard that there’s been a massive earthquake in Los Angeles, and we don’t know if LAX is still standing, we can’t raise them. Please bear with us, we’ll know more shortly.” [ en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1994_Northridge_earthquake ] This was some kind of joke, right? I mean not to make it all about me, but the Northridge quake happens on the day of my dad’s funeral, AND it’s also my birthday? All on the same day? Really? I hate to even say that because it does such a disservice to the people who died in that quake, but at the time, sitting on that tiny plane and feeling very alone, it’s all I could come up with. It’s one of the only times in my life when I asked myself without a hint of hyperbole, “what else could possibly go wrong?” A half hour later the pilot confirmed that LAX was reachable again and that they were clear to land there, so we took off into the wild blue yonder. About 5 hours later, we landed at LAX. I don’t recall LAX looking too bad but it wasn’t particularly close to the epicenter of the quake. We were picked up by my cousin Louise, and she drove us back to my aunt Michelle’s house (Harry’s sister) where everyone was gathered. Una, the kids, cousin Doug were all there. As we were talking, we were hit with an aftershock. We found out later it was one of the largest aftershocks produced by the Northridge quake, somewhere in the low 5 range on the richter scale. It made the whole house roll like it was on the ocean, and it lasted a solid 20 seconds. 20 seconds feels like an eternity when you’re not sure if the house is going to collapse on your head. At some point after that we made our way to the funeral home. My memories are a chaotic jumble, I was so sad, and there were so many people, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was outside for a while as people arrived, and then it was time for the funeral to begin and I went inside. As I walked in, a large number of people recognized me, most of whom I didn’t know. I went to the bathroom, and even there, people were greeting me and expressing how sorry they were. We were grown men weeping in a bathroom. We couldn’t help it. And I’ve always had a particular sensitivity to death. The sorrow it causes, the sense of loss, it’s hard for me to cope with under normal circumstances, and this was much worse. And there were so many people who loved Harry so much, who were all so sad. And all of this, in addition to the devastation of the earthquake, and indeed the intermittent rumbling the whole time we were there made the experience… almost like a form of insanity, where it was just too surreal to believe. Harry’s music was playing softly over the speakers, and his voice, that voice, wafted through the air as we sat and looked at Harry for the last time, in his open casket. I couldn’t look at him. Earlier that day when we first arrived, I said my goodbyes. There were only a few people there, and I stood in front of my father and looked at his face. I wanted him to say something funny. Come on, just tell me this isn’t really happening. Tell me this isn’t the end, dad. Tell me a joke. Tell me a joke, dad. I’ll even laugh at it. I’ll stop crying and I’ll laugh. I was sitting next to my aunt Michelle, as words were spoken about Harry. Kind words, words meant to comfort and soothe. I didn’t really hear any of them, it was like white noise. Jimmy Webb gave a eulogy that I remember thinking was so poignant and so wonderful that it distracted me and made me feel better, for a time. And then the speaking was done and it was time to move Harry to his hole in the ground. I was a pallbearer along with two of my brothers and Jimmy, and George Harrison, and at least one other person I’m sorry I don’t remember who it was. We carried Harry outside and up the hill and to his grave site, which was a lovely spot that afforded a nice view, and I was somewhat comforted that it would be there. We set him down and more words were spoken, none of which I can recall. I simply remember his casket, the grave site, the crowd of people all gathered around. People were sad, and then somebody recalled a funny moment with Harry and people were happy, and then people were sad again. And eventually it was all over. I distinctly remember taking one last look at Harry’s casket. I wanted to remember it, because that was the last time I would see him, and I could not come to terms with that. I had to burn it into my memory so I could remember him before he went into the earth. I had to, I couldn’t let him go. It was too much, he meant too much to me and burying him was much too final for me to cope with. And then I turned around, and we left. I was numb, and I had never felt so alone in my life. We went to a restaurant for a family lunch, though I didn’t much feel like eating. After lunch I went back to aunt Michelle’s house to collapse into some furniture and listen to the ringing in my ears. Later that day, we went to Harry and Una’s house for an Irish wake. Everybody from the funeral was there, and this memory is also mostly a blur but I do remember having some conversations with some startlingly famous people, and realizing that we’re all human. These people lost one of their best friends. The stories they told me came from the heart, and I found myself thinking that maybe Harry wasn’t dead after all. If these stories, told by people who knew and loved him, could make me smile then maybe he wasn’t completely gone. Maybe, by telling stories about Harry, we could keep him alive. Maybe, by telling stories about Harry, I can keep him alive.
Posted on: Thu, 15 Jan 2015 17:06:27 +0000
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