I received an email yesterday from a woman from Marseilles who now lives in North Carolina who knew Letty decades ago, and when she returned to the states was so excited to catch up, but the phone number she had didn’t work. Of course. So she Googled her and came upon my written memorial to her. She was devastated and wrote a lengthy email expressing her sorrow and condolences as well as remembering when they were both so young and full of energy. I haven’t responded yet–I will–and I’ll avoid my thoughts about the fact email works all over the world, including Marseilles, as do cell phones and how we have more free time than we would like others to believe to be able to call and say, “Hey I only have one minute but you are on my mind and I just wanted to say hi.” They’ve been warned it is a quick call. But I won’t say that because I’m just as guilty. Not as guilty as I used to be, but just the same. I wait until after it is too late to say what I want to say, even if all it is might be “Hello, I’m thinking of you.” The world is more chaotic than ever in human history and taking a moment to spread thoughts of friendship and love can go a long way these days.
I receive emails fairly often from friends of people I’ve written about. I’ve received dozens referencing Cole Young as I might be the only one other than art critics who has written often about my dear late friend who succumbed to lung cancer twenty years ago. He knew a lot of people, mostly artists, and they tend to look him up–Cole had a personality that might very likely reach back at you from the beyond to say, “Think of me now, Kunzinger!” So emails about Cole are common and not at all a surprise. It has, in fact, put me back in touch with some artists I knew back in those days.
The weirdest email was from “Eton Churchill.” Mind you, that is the name of my friend, playwright, professor Eton Churchill, who steered my Penn State Graduate degree and performance to a Pennsylvania Humanities Award. He died many years ago at a young sixty-two, so when I received an email from “him,” it did somewhat freak me out. It was, in fact, from his son who at the time was living in Asia. In fact, the first line was “I bet it is strange to receive an email from Eton Churchill. But I’m his son.” He also had read a tribute I wrote to his father and wrote to reminisce more than anything else. It reminded me of the time at my father’s funeral a man Dad used to work with came up to us with articles about my dad that this man had saved. He explained that none of my father’s coworkers had ever been to New York, let alone Wall Street, and Dad was the Yoda of their workplace; they all looked up to him and respected him. It is a moment I will never forget and will always appreciate. That’s a perspective we never get to hear. So Eton Junior’s email was more about appreciating that others appreciated his dad. Yes, we did. Very much. I’m just sorry I didn’t express that to him when he was alive. He passed away too soon. They always did.
Fr Dan knew our relationship well; we were more brothers than friends, and while he died unexpectedly, I never felt like I should have said more. I just wish I had. My college friend Dave, however, I had so much I wanted to say, so many thanks and memories to exchange, but he denied others the chance to say, “Hey, my life is better because of you. Thank you for forty-five years of friendship. I love you.” I wish I could have said that, and the “he knew that, Bob” comments are not sufficient. We know that doesn’t matter. It needs to be said. We need to give people the chance to tell us these things.
Letty knew exactly how I felt, of course, as did my mom and dad, but not so for Eddie, not Bobbie, not the other Dave and the other friend’s who left so much unspoken. I’ve received letters from friends of all of these people because of something I had written. The common denominator is their regret at having not told the person how they felt while they were still alive. Instead they told me. Which is nice, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’ve learned from these letters, however. I am glad I had a brief, lucid conversation with my dad. I’m glad my mom’s eyes were open long enough for me to say, “I love you, Mom,” as they welled up with tears and an hour later she was gone. I’m satisfied she knew. And I hope she knew I understood her love for me.
So then why do we wait? Why do we put off telling others how much they mean to us? It is simply speaking truth and demands no response at all. We can even tell them that: “Don’t respond, but I love you and I’m glad you’re in my life.” The closest we come now is “I appreciate you.” When this expression burst on the scene less than a decade ago (depending upon where you are from), I was resistant at first. I don’t appreciate them, I appreciate what they did. Someone holds the door open for someone else and they say, “I appreciate ya.” No. You appreciate not having to open the door yourself; you don’t even know the person holding it.
But yes, I’ve changed my tune. I do appreciate anyone who is nice these days in a world where anger and blame and aggression and excuses, lying and deception and downright rage is rampant. Maybe it is all the cellphone and Wifi waves in the air around us screwing with our nervous system; maybe we are losing faith, maybe we are losing hope. So the “I appreciate you” comments are not only welcome, they just might be necessary. Where else do we find hope and support anymore?
Listen, seriously. I appreciate ya.
Memorials to some of my friends:
a view from this wilderness 