Death has a way of bringing back memories, some fond, others not so fond. In the last few weeks those memories have flooded me with greater force. It started with Ernie Harwell’s death on May 4, when nostalgia sent me spinning back to the 1960s when my grandfather and I would sit on the porch in Detroit listening to Harwell announce Tiger games.
It didn’t stop there. Since 1995, Memorial Day weekend has been extremely tough. Not only because of those we honor for sacrificing their lives in wars, but because that was when my mother died. The recent deaths of Lena Horne (May 9); Gary Coleman (May 28); Dennis Hopper (May 29), and Rue McClanahan (June 3) added to those memories. How often did those four entertain us, turning separate days, weeks, months and years into a rich tapestry of life? Do you remember how Dennis Hopper stole “True Romance” with his Sicilians are black screed? How often did you laugh and mumble “slut” when Blanche made some sexually outrageous comment on “Golden Girls?” Did every photo of Lena Horne stir up “Stormy Weather” in your mind?
“What’choo talkin ’bout, Willis?” Coleman would say, his cheeks puffed for extra emphasis.
The year is not half over yet, and the deaths already seem overwhelming. Dorothy Height (April 20); Benjamin Hooks (April 15); Dixie Carter (April 10); John Forsythe (April 1); Robert Culp (March 24); Fess Parker (March 18); Merlin Olsen (March 11); Pernell Roberts (Jan. 24); Teddy Pendergrass (Jan. 13), and Art Linkletter (May 26). There have been many others of note, but each of these reminds me of a different part of my life, a different thread. Parker as Daniel Boone when I was a little boy enraptured with cowboy movies. Culp in “I Spy” as I was trying to learn what it meant to be cool. Forsythe on “Charlie’s Angels” when I thought I was cool. And Pendergrass at basement parties where teenage bodies sought in the dance what could not be found so easily in the world.
Indeed, death does have a way of reminding us of so much.
No comments:
Post a Comment