By Edwin Cooney
Hellos and goodbyes, two of the most common and continuing
human phenomena, have been uppermost in my life over the past six months. Yet, as I think about it, hellos and
goodbyes, profound as they are when fully grasped, are what we say and do
everyday of our lives.
When we are babies almost everyone, with the possible
exception of the neighbor in the next apartment, is happy to respond to our
delightful newborn squeals and coos!
As for our ultimate "goodbye," that, especially if it is
expressed beyond our control, can be quite another matter. One’s goodbye, whether expressed or
inevitably noticed, often reflects all we’ve done or failed to do throughout our
lives.
Since approximately mid October of 2012, I’ve been saying
hello and offering my all to Marsha -- the mistress of my future. At the same time, I’ve been saying what
I’ll call “proximity goodbyes” to people named Ed, Steve, a bunch of Davids,
Peter, Tony, RC, Kat, Sherra, Asher, Justine, Unkee Don, Linguini’s Don, and
Reverend Don, a mess of Chris’s of both genders, only one Shadi, of course,
Chuck, a couple of Dianes, Kathy, Michelle, Heather, Sam, Denise, at least two
Brians, Amanda and a beyond wonderful lady called Bean. I define "proximity goodbyes"
as a recognition of mere absence and a distinct and deliberate rejection of
emotional separation. Certainly my
goodbyes to Eric and Ryan Cooney are precisely that. I’m incapable of saying goodbye to my sons!
What it all boils down to is how what comes to matter in
one’s life affects a lot of other circumstances and people who also matter
very, very much. Last fall, I came
to the realization that my love for Marsha filled a lingering empty space in my
life. Hence, when I pledged my
supreme and hopefully nourishing love and ultimately my all to the most
energetic, thoughtful, dynamic, and loving woman ever to open her heart to me,
I chose to make a lot of very important people and living conditions second to
what I planned to build with her.
In order to best serve her, I had to say a mess of proximity goodbyes to
those named above and to a few others whose names may be clouded by the heavy
curtain of sadness that flavors this week’s commentary!
Saturday, August 4th, 1979, the day I came West,
was thirty-three years and two hundred forty days ago. On that date, I was
thirty-three years old. Now, I’m
sixty-seven and it’s only barely possible that I have thirty-three years to
go. Hence, a brief reflection on
the hellos I’ve experienced over the past thirty-three years might be in order.
Two of my first friends in California and the most long
lasting -- Tony and Don -- were fans of my five hundred foot blasts during my
beep baseball days -- and once you’ve swallowed that, I’ll invite you to visit
my plaque at Cooperstown, New York.
(Try not to confuse my plaque there with Babe Ruth’s or Yogi
Berra’s!) I met Peter and David --
two of the smartest men I’ve ever known -- while looking for avenues toward
re-employment following my days as a director of a radio reading service in San
Francisco. Chris and his wife
Diane I met through a previous sweetheart. They were invaluably supportive in
providing me with the venue, their deck on San Francisco Bay, to unite me in
marriage to Marsha on Saturday, March 9th, 2013. An unforgettable lady called Bean, two
gentlemen named Ed and Steve, and Reverend Don (the wonderfully eloquent
gentleman who conducted our wedding ceremony) were, -- and remain -- my reward
for an extended search for sound thinking and a sense of spirituality. They gave me wonderful ideas to explore
along with one or two solid reality checks. Additionally, I was blessed with the friendships of Richard,
Barbara, Clara, and Mary who were members of a weekly book-studying Friday
lunch munching crew. I accumulated
my Brian brigade, my crowd of Chris’s, my David division, Sam, Justine, Kat,
Heather, Linguini’s Don, Tim, Sherra, Asher and an incredibly sweet lady named
Shadi at my local watering hole.
(Regular readers of these weekly musings understandably might like to
know where I met Lunkhead and Dunderhead -- however, that’s a matter of
national security. Dick Cheney and
Skooter Libby would be most upset if I were to reveal that watering hole!)
Twenty-eight wonderful people attended Marsha’s and my
wedding and, as my son Ryan pointed out later, they didn’t come out of
professional, political or even familial obligation. They came because they wanted to be there.
One hundred and sixty-four years ago, the “Forty Niners”
migrated in droves to California, which became known as “The Golden State,” to
seek their fortune The friendships of those twenty-eight people who attended my
wedding, plus a few more, constitute my California fortune.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: just don’t let it get
out of the room! I wouldn’t have
it any other way!
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
No comments:
Post a Comment