Tag Archives: Friendship

Redbuds of Remembrance

Posted on by
5

“To be remembered, to have one’s name spoken—these are the most powerful things anyone can hope for.“

–Paul Monette (1945–1995; award-winning gay author, poet, and activist. His 1988 Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir was one of the first memoirs to document the AIDS crisis from a personal, unflinching perspective.)

Cercis canadensis—or Redbud, as we call it here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia—is blooming now, as April unfurls, splashing the forest with an unmistakable purple that defies subtlety. Not pink. Not lavender. But a wild, jubilant purple that dares the bare trees around it to remember what life feels like. Its blossoms don’t wait for leaves, and they don’t hide behind foliage. They burst straight from the bark, bold and tender all at once—like a memory that insists on being remembered.

They seem more magnificent this year, tugging at my heart more fiercely than ever before, making David’s words ring out above his gentle whisper:

“When the Redbuds bloom, remember me.”

David and I knew one another decades ago at the Library of Congress where we both worked in the United States Copyright Office. When we first met, David was a Cataloger, and I was a Technical Support Specialist and then Copyright Training Coordinator. We were hello-in-passing colleagues.

Later, a close and unexpected bond developed between us. I became the Library of Congress Intern Director, coordinating a 9-month program that brought together a dozen or so highly talented librarians from within the Library and across the nation, providing them with an in-depth understanding of the library’s collections, its services, and its management infrastructure.

Sitting in my office about two weeks before the program’s start, I looked up and saw David standing there. After I congratulated him on being selected for that year’s Intern class, he gave me a troubled look:

“Thanks. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Come on in.”

He closed the door as he entered. He sat down, sighed, and shot me another look that to this day remains in my memory as one of existential angst:

“I have AIDS.”

My reply hung in the air, like eternity:

“I’m so sorry.”

What else could I have said? It was 1985. Even though AIDS (Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome) was generally known to most Americans, as it spread within the gay community, it started making its way to sensational articles in national newspapers, leaving all of us–especially in the gay community–terror stricken.

● 37% in Poll Say AIDS Altered Their Attitude to Homosexuals

● Saliva Discounted as an AIDS Threat

● More and More AIDS Cases Found Among Drug Users

● Panel Disagrees Over AIDS Risk for Public

● Grim New Ravage of AIDS: Brain Damage

● Rock Hudson, Screen Idol, Dies at 59

I had read those articles and more, but they had not prepared me for this moment.

Sitting across the desk from me was not Rock Hudson. Not a brain-ravaged AIDS person. Not a drug user. Not any of the things that I had read about.

Sitting across the desk from me was my friend David. David, poised at a high point in his career. David, diagnosed with AIDS. David. Death.

Before my three words had reached David’s ears, I walked around to where he sat. As I stretched out my arms, David stood to receive my embrace. Each knowing that friends stand for friends. Each knowing that friends stand with friends.

“I don’t know what to do?”

“About what?”

“About starting the Intern program.”

I knew the answer that I was about to give David was true. It had nothing to do with being gay. Nothing to do with AIDS. It had everything to do with being. Everything to do with living.

“I don’t have a magic ball, David, but it seems to me that as you face unknown health issues, a structured program like this might just be the anchor that you need.”

“But what about my fellow interns?”

David was well aware that for the next nine months, we would all share a small classroom–with top library officials appearing and making presentations throughout the day. It was close quarters. It was rigorous. It was intense.

He was also well aware of the public reaction to AIDS. Fear was thick in the air—fear of infection, fear of proximity, even fear within the gay community itself. At one point, some wondered whether poppers had caused the epidemic.

“I don’t know how your fellow Interns will react, but I’d urge you to stick with the program. I’ll be with you every day, and I’ll have your back.”

David left my office, leaving each of us with lots to think about.

For David, thinking about whether to continue with the program or let a disease with an unknown trajectory–other than eventual death–take charge of his life and spirit.

For me, thinking about navigating the months ahead while remembering that I was directing the most prestigious Library Intern program in the nation.

Two weeks passed. No word from David. Hopeful, I went ahead and made his name tent, stacking it with the others. As I stood at the door, greeting each of the Interns, I saw David walking my way:

“Let’s do it!”

And do it, we did, for a succession of days strung together like a strand of survival pearls. Then, one day, just before we were breaking for lunch, David asked whether he could share something with his classmates.

I knew what was coming. I knew, too, that anyone with something to share knows better than anyone else not only when to share but also how to share.

David shared his news with them as bluntly as he had shared it with me, but his existential angst had softened, perhaps in the hope that a burden shared would become a burden lessened.

I watched each face in the room. I listened to every word. To every breath between the words. One by one, each Intern summoned courage to offer consolation, support, hope, and help. When the last among them had offered all they had to give, one spoke again, laying one thing more upon love’s altar:

“Let’s have lunch brought in so we can all stay here together. Today. With David.”

We did.

The spirit that shone around the room that day continued to shine upon us day after day, month after month, all the way through a triumphant Intern graduation with David as one of our speakers.

David and his fellow Interns proved themselves to be a class beyond measure.

Where many people spoke of separation, the Interns spoke of inclusion.

Where many people chose to remain socially ignorant, the Interns chose to embrace information as power.

Where many people practiced discrimination, the Interns practiced acceptance.

I like to think that all of us rose to the occasion. We did. At the same time, I know that it was David who helped us rise higher than we ever imagined simply because we were not trying to rise. We were just trying to be … ourselves. We were just trying to let him be … himself.

In David, we did not see the face of AIDS.

In David, we saw the face of humanity.

In David, we saw the face of ourselves.

In David, we saw the depth of our empathy.

In David, we saw the things that each of us valued most.

In David, we saw opportunities to be more present, to say “I love you” more, and to recalibrate the course of our own lives.

In David, we saw the face of our own mortality, our fears of not having lived fully, of leaving things unsaid, and of being forgotten.

Through David and with David, we grappled with all of those grave issues–spoken and unspoken–confident of being fellow travelers on a shared journey.

Through David, with the arrival of every new spring since–now numbering forty–I am wrapt by redbuds of remembrance.

Co-Scripting the Postscript

Posted on by
13

Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses — past the headlands —
Into deep Eternity —

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

–Emily Dickinson (1830–1886; pioneering American poet who explored themes of death, immortality, and nature with unmatched depth.)

Frank is dead, yet he liveth. I have proof. Well, it’s proof enough to satisfy me. I’ll share it with you so you can decide for yourself, as we all must do in the end.

Frank is my friend. My use of the present tense is deliberate. Remember: though he be dead, he liveth.

We became fast friends decades ago in the 1980s when we worked together at the Library of Congress. Frank was an attorney in the General Counsel’s Office; I, Special Assistant for Human Resources. From the start, wordplay cemented our friendship. Frank loved words as much as I, and when it came to verbal banter, Frank outdistanced me often, if not always. He was the perpetual prankster as well. I remember one occasion when his twin visited, and they switched roles. John became the attorney. Frank, the visitor. They duped all of us until well past noon, when Frank decided it was time to fess up, showing everyone the fun of being identical twins.

Beyond his pranks and his verbal banter, Frank commanded trust, and it was the kind of trust that went beyond attorney-client privilege. It was trust forged from seeing moral fiber in action. Frank was no stranger to walking the high road. He and I often walked it together.

Ironically, during those years, Frank and I weren’t friends outside of work. But that didn’t matter. Friends are friends. I will forever remember my last day at work when I took an early retirement. Frank came to my office wearing a deep burgundy casual shirt, one that I had admired time and time again. He smiled, pointed to his shirt, and turned around several times:

“You want it?”

“Of course, I do.”

With all the theatrics he could muster, he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, twirled it around in the air, and tossed it to me.

“It’s all yours. Enjoy!”

I enjoyed it until its beauty was threadbare. Friends really do that sort of thing, literally and metaphorically. They take the shirt right off their backs and give it to you. Frank was that kind of friend.

Our friendship survived my move to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and, in many ways, it became stronger. We didn’t see one another as often, but our connections seemed deeper and more meaningful because they were more planned and more deliberate.

I remember several special get-togethers that strengthened our already strong bond.

The first was a visit here to my mountaintop when my home was still the weekend cabin that I purchased initially. Frank came up so that he could see what I saw living up here, but he ended up helping me transplant several large Leyland Cypress. One still stands in my lower yard, towering over the landscape. Friends, like trees, stand tall.

The next was a weekend when Frank visited me in Front Royal, where I lived while juggling a teaching schedule across two campuses. I’ll always remember the unexpected snow that started falling while we were out for an evening stroll that seemed to last for hours. Eventually, we stepped inside for a late-night dinner. We were the only diners in a restaurant reminiscent of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, with its large glass windows and warm light casting an inviting glow against the stark, quiet night outside. Friends make unexpected joys more joyful.

Fast forward to more recent times. Frank and I decided to meet for lunch from time to time in historic Middleburg, VA, midway between his home in Springfield and mine in Edinburg. Before long, our occasional lunches became monthly rituals, always at the King Street Oyster Bar, always sipping Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, and always sharing several dozen briny oysters on the half shell. When Frank’s wife Barbara joined us for the first time, it was as if I had known her as long as I had known Frank. Friends like that are rare.

Betwixt and between our lunches and our frequent texting were several special celebrations. Thanksgiving of 2022 comes to mind most readily. Frank, Barbara, and their friend James joined me for the day, and I served up a modest feast, including the one thing that Frank had requested: store-bought jellied cranberry sauce. Friends have quirks.

The next spring, Frank and Barbara flew to Burlington, Vermont, for the publisher’s launch of my book Green Mountain Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, just to make sure that someone came to the event. Friends look out for friends.

In 2024, the Washington Area Group for Print Culture Studies (WAGPCS) invited me to speak at one of their monthly meetings in the Rare Book and Special Collections Division at the Library of Congress. Barbara was instrumental in orchestrating it all. When she first asked me whether I’d be willing to come back and talk, Frank commented that it would be like circling back home. Indeed, it was. I started my career at the Library of Congress in 1969, and it was there that Frank and I engraved our friendship. I loved Frank’s observation so much that I incorporated it into the title of my April 4th talk: “Circling Back Home: Thomas Shuler Shaw, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and the Library of Congress.” Frank and Barbara were there for the talk and for dinner afterward. Friends keep friends in their circle.

Frank and I were well aware that our friendship was special. I suppose that’s why every time we met and then parted to go our separate ways, we always turned around, in sync it seemed, to smile and wave goodbye at least once, sometimes twice, as if that goodbye might be forever. Friends know that one day, forever comes.

The last time that Frank and I carried out our turn-around-and-wave-goodbye ritual was last September when we lunched at the King Street Oyster Bar, with John joining us. Frank seemed strong despite having some health issues that his doctors thought might be related to his liver. Within a month or so, Frank was given the grim news that he was in liver failure, with perhaps four months or so to live. He called to tell me. Friends share tragedy, even through tears.

The details of our interactions since then are of little consequence except for my proof that though Frank be dead, he liveth. Here’s how I know.

During one of our conversations, Frank wanted to talk about dying. Conversations about death and dying are so important, yet so many people aren’t comfortable grappling with the topic. Frank knew that I was. We didn’t talk about the art of dying. Instead, we talked about the mystery of the Great Beyond. What awaits us when we are freed from our mortal selves?

We both talked. We both listened. Frank is Catholic. I’m Protestant. We talked about the Christian notion of the Afterlife as a divine manuscript of salvation or separation, with Heaven and Hell serving as eternal footnotes to a life well (or poorly) lived. Barbara is Jewish. We talked about Judaism often leaving the notion of the afterlife intentionally open-ended, a poetic ellipsis, focusing more on righteous living than on what comes after. We talked about the fact that while different world religions script the afterlife differently, each crafts a unique but converging narrative that points toward some form of existence beyond death.

We both agreed that death is not the end. We both agreed that religions, in their diverse and poetic ways, reassure us that the story carries on, that the postscript—whatever its shape—awaits. We reminded one another of the universal longing for connection—across faiths, lives, and time.

I jokingly suggested to Frank that if he died first, which seemed likely, that he should reach out to me somehow and let me know whatever he could let me know. He agreed. Friends reach out to one another, always.

And here’s where proof marches in.

Frank died peacefully on January 13th, at 10:04pm. I didn’t get Barbara’s text message until the next morning.

As I tried to process the weight of Frank’s passing, I turned to one of the things that always brings me solace—Gospel music. I have dozens and dozens of Gospel songs on my playlist, never knowing which song will play first.

“Alexa, shuffle my playlist Gospel.”

The song that started playing gave me goosebumps from head to toe. It was Ralph Stanley, the acclaimed King of Mountain Music, triumphantly singing “When I Wake Up to Sleep No More”:

What a glad thought some wonderful morning
Just to hear Gabriel’s trumpet sound
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

Rising to meet my blessed Redeemer
With a glad shout I’ll leave the ground
When I wake up (When I wake up)
To sleep no more

When I wake up (on some glad morning)
To sleep no more (jewels adorning)
Happy I’ll be (over in glory)
On Heaven’s bright shore (telling the story)
With the redeemed of all the ages
Praising the One whom I adore
When I wake up (when I wake up)
To sleep no more

I chuckled, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Frank had just paid me a visit.

True to his word, Frank kept his part of our agreement, and, in listening and believing, I kept mine. Together, we co-scripted the postscript—a reminder that the stories we write with those we love don’t end.

§  §  §

Frank Mack

December 13, 1952 – January 13, 2025

Invisible, yet alive—

Whispers. Touches. Sings.

The Humourist on Giving and Receiving Tokens of Esteem on New Year’s Day

Posted on by
7

Friendship is the Life of Man, the only Cement of Society, the only pledge of true Felicity. —The Humourist

 

1 January 1754

The HUMOURIST.  No. I.1

— — — Laeti
Dona ferunt, — —
                                              VIRGIL.2

The most volatile enjoy Hours of Reflection, and indeed Life must appear very burdensome to that Man whose Genius is unable to chequer the grave with the ludicrous, the solemn with the Farce:  A well-tempered Mixture is ever the best, the one is a Relaxation for the other, and greatly contributes to render our Company acceptable in all social Communications.

The Humourist was yesterday serious: the Incident was fortunate, for whilst he was employed in passing his yearly accounts, and comparing a few Transactions of the former, with the past Year, he stumbled upon a Sentiment which carries with it an excellent Moral, and opportunely serves as an Introduction to that Revolution of Time, generally term’d a Year.

This is the Season, wherein that laudable Custom of presenting Tokens of Friendship, has Time out of Mind prevailed: It is a Custom so noble as it is ancient, and is undoubtedly grounded on the most perfect Reason, and established by the best Examples.

A very limited and confined Knowledge of the Ancients, will suffice to illustrate this Truth.  If we look back upon the Jews, we shall find, that the Month of Nisan, the first of their Year, was dedicated to the Celebration of Feasts, particularly that of the Passover, on which Occasion they gave the most general Invitations to their Neighbors to the eating [one or two illegible words].

The Greeks began their Olympiads by Sacrificing to Jupiter and the most superstitious Nations have not been wanting in Ceremonies of a like Nature.

A New-Year’s Gift, is a renewing, or rather confirming, that Friendship which a generous Mind will always be ambitious to acquire.

There is only one Thing wherein I should take Pleasure in seeing Mankind bear a Resemblance to the Turks, and that is, by rejoicing with due Reverence at every new Moon, whose Crescent they never fail to display with the most grateful Acts of Kindness to each other.

In January and February, the Romans made Presents to their Friends, and Romulus expressly commanded, that Vervine should be offered with other Marks of mutual Respect, as the wisest Method of insuring to themselves a successful and happy Conclusion to the Year.

Tacitus tells us. that Tiberius fixed the First of January as the proper Day, not only for the giving, but likewise for receiving, these Tokens of Esteem.

We are apt to measure Love by the most extravagant Return of Favours, but if we consider, that the Dispensations of Providence are too unequally divided, to allow each Man the same Power of Distribution, we shall regard more justly those Marks of Gratitude, that, notwithstanding they want the Stamp of Gratitude, do nevertheless bear upon them the Figure of a generous Mind; it is the Manner, not the Value, that distinguishes the Greatness of the Favour, it is the sweet and grateful Communication of our Gratitude, not the too liberal Profusion, that renders the Gift an acceptable Boon.

Customs of this nature can never meet with suitable Encouragement; all our Endeavors to promote them, will fall greatly short of the Veneration in which they ought to be upheld.

Friendship is the Life of Man, the only Cement of Society, the only pledge of true Felicity.

These annual Gifts strengthen and confirm our Alliances, and preserve that Conformity of  [one illegible word ending in tent] which is the Essence of mutual Esteem.

A well grounded Friendship promotes the [one illegible word] Virtues, and entirely eradicates from the human Heart, any insincere Passions or turbulent Suspicions.

With a Friend (not a Friend in common Acceptation) a Desart loses its Train of Horror, and only seems a blest Retirement.

It is evident, that the Ancients looked upon those Customs as promotive of the social Duties, and as so many Obligations of the Performance of them.  I am sorry to say, that modern Elegance is endeavouring to suppress these noble Emanations, but I am far more grieved to own, that such Virtues are incompatible with modern Graces.

It is with Sincerity I offer my Thoughts on this Subject, tho’ far more unnecessary in this Place (than in my others) where so noble a Generosity, joined with an hospitable Dignity, prevails.

The greatest Lessons of Morality may be gathered from imbibing such worthy Sentiments; they communicate Love to every Individual, and keep up an Harmony, without which the Order of Nature is inverted.

These Gifts create a most happy Emulation amongst the juvenile part of Mankind, and are so many Records of Friendship for the Gathers and Grandfathers to transmit to Posterity.

If these Hints meet with Approbation, I need not assure my Readers, that the Reward is more than adequate to my Trouble:  And I dare affirm, that if any Exceptions are taken to the Method I pursue in treating upon this or any other Subject, they will be generously considered as Errors arising from a Defect of Judgment, not for a total Ignorance of what an honest Soul ought to dictate.

NOTES

1 Starting with 1754, The Humourist numbers each essay.

2 The quote is from Vergil’s Aeneid (Book V:100-101), “Aeneas Declares the Games”: “And his companions as well, brought gifts gladly, of which / each had a store, piling high the altars, sacrificing bullocks: / others set out rows of cauldrons, and scattered among the grass, / placed live coals under the spits, and roasted the meat.”