I went to services for Danny Stewart Tuesday. His ended a string of deaths this year of people who meant a lot in my life. He and Janice Mitchell, who were both a big part of my Daily Journal identity) in the space of a week. I didn’t hear about Janicepassing until after her service, so I felt blessed I got to know about Danny’s, but it was in it way a final slap in the face. It took me to a reading of Psalm 103: “As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. But from everlasting to everlasting the LORDs love is with those who fear him” (13-18). It’s my days that are like grass, not just those of so many friends, not just Danny. Danny was one of those free spirits (flowers flourishing in the field) that allowed me to find myself when I was too full of myself.Among many things, he helped get my degree. We used ICC and Ole Miss to work over a space of several years to close a long gap. When we both graduated at Ole Miss, be both joked we ought see if we could get ICC diplomas at the same time. We were the old folk in the bachelor’s degree line. But it was mostly in sharing a deep love of sports that we found a common stomping group. Danny finagled a media game with the then national power Ole Miss women so he could do a George Plimpton type story. The story and the game were a success. (I actually scored two buckets in my only organized basketball game, for which I will be forever grateful to him). The NCAA banned the game before a second one to be played because it broke some kind of rule that is beyond me. The only reason I can think of is that those women were making middle-aged sportswriters look bad. But it was that outlook, that unique originality that made Danny special to me. My only Myers-Briggs profile included the statement that my type could have friendships that even after long lapses could be picked up where we left off. It has been over 30 years since I last saw him, and yet there is a part of me in which that bridge of time is non-existent. I feel like we could have picked up right where we left off. I hate I won’t get a chance to know now.
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 05:52:40 +0000