LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Gay 'n Gray: September Song |
by John Siegfried |
I know that "time flies when you're having fun," so this must have been one hip-hop happy hilarious summer. Yesterday was Memorial Day, tomorrow is Labor Day, and the summer is gone. Those of us who have the privilege of staying in Rehoboth beyond Labor Day know that the best is yet to come. September has warm days and cool nights. The ocean temperature is better than June or July and the crowds are gone. Parking is a snap. But, then again, as an incurable romantic, "September Song" has always been a favorite of mine. It's a Kurt Weill number that became standard Sinatra. It's a favorite of the grays and becomes particularly poignant the more gray I show. Oh, it's a long, long while from May to December But the days grow short when you reach September. When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame One hasn't time for the waiting game. Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few September, November And these precious days I'll spend with you These precious days I'll spend with you. Four years ago I heard a young baritone sing that song at the Young Artists concert sponsored by the Sarasota (FL) Opera. He was good and he milked it for all it was worth. At the conclusion of his performance there was hushed silence, then deafening applausemore than a show tune usually receives. As I looked over the audience I realized that my partner, Howard, was the only one in the auditorium I could see whose hair was neither gray, nor white, nor blue (or some combination of the three). Everyone there related uniquely to that song. Howard's hair is still black, thank you, although a bit of salt is beginning to spice his plateno, pate. I'm not a necrophiliac homo-maniac, but I've been an obituary cruiser for decades. No matter what city I'm in, I cruise the obituary of the local paper to find out, who diedlocally and nationally. Partly I'm working on the outside chance that I may recognize a name and partly I'm checking ages of the deceased as kind of a score card on how I'm doing. I suspect I'm not alone in this bizarre pursuit. I'm now in an age range, however, when e-mails, letters, and phone calls, on an increasingly regular basis, bring word of a friend or colleague either newly diagnosed with cancer or some other fatal illness, or dead. After my father retired from the Allentown Post Office he attended the funerals of his coworkers. Partly this was out of respect for the deceased, and partly it was to see old buddies from the office. I noticed, however, that over time his attendance was less regular and then stopped. When we spoke together about this, his recollection was that there weren't many of the old gang left and he was no longer comfortable calculating his odds on his own personal scorecard. Actually, he was one of the fortunate few who lived in his own home to age 88 with the assistance of a housekeeper, and he died quietly after a brief illness. I remind Howard periodically when we review our wills (and I hope you've made your own) that there are longevity genes in my family and that I have every intention of burying him and my next husband even though he's twenty years younger than I am. If you see me out gathering mushrooms, don't ask why. One of the awesome features of the progression of debility and death among my friends is the quality and depth of support offered by members of the gay community. One local couple had their return to Rehoboth delayed by weeks this Spring as they arranged a friend's move into an assisted living facility in another city. Early this year, a gay ex-Rehoboth man and his partner assisted a gay friend with terminal cancer through his illness, interfaced with the family, and arranged his memorial service. You'll never convince me that sainthood is limited to straights. There are lots of gay saints and I eat and drink with them daily. The unique caring community that surfaced early in the AIDS epidemic continues in the gay and gray set in a remarkable way. Daily I'm reminded that "days grow short, when you reach September." Ruth Bader Ginsburg, in addressing a women's medical group recently, noted that since her treatment for colon cancer, "each thing I do comes with a heightened appreciation that I'm able to do it." And in a similar vein Jack Reimer, writing in the Houston Chronicle, recalled a November 18, 1995 concert at Avery Fisher Hall with Itzhak Perlman as violin soloist in which one of the strings on Mr. Perlman's violin broke early in his performance. Perlman had polio as a child, walks with braces on both legs and is aided by crutches. To the amazement of the audience, rather than repeat the process of unlocking his leg braces and painfully leaving the stage for a replacement violin, Mr. Perlman picked up from where he was forced to stop, recomposing the piece in his head as he played, in order to finish his performance using the three strings. After a thunderous ovation Itzhak Perlman hushed the audience and quietly stated, "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left." Reimer's conclusion is, "So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all we have, and then when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left." I can't add to that. John Siegfried, a retired association executive, resides in Rehoboth Beach and Ft. Lauderdale. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 12, August 24, 2001 |