RAMBLING APPETITES ON THE WAY TO TWELFTH NIGHT

Today is the Twelfth Day of Christmastide..... “twelve drummers drumming” and all that. Shakespeare wrote a play Twelfth Night… and I’ll get around to it eventually. Tonight is also a time for feasting.

I have always eaten food too quickly. Of course, my Mother, Ibby Bell, was probably one of the slowest and most agonizingly careful eaters I ever encountered.

In the third grade I started piano lessons, but the only time my teacher could fit me into her schedule was on Monday— during lunch. So Mother would pick me up in the car and give me a sandwich and a thermos of soup, which I devoured on my way to the lesson. And Mother wondered why I ate so quickly. (After eating a few times with Gary Murakami, he asked me if I came from a large family).

My Dad was quite a hearty eater. When he first courted my Mother—or at least was a guest in Woolrich— he demolished a cake my grandmother had baked. She was not pleased. Mother said that Goggie had planned to have the cake last at least several days, if not a week. (This was not the case of a prospective mother-in-law inviting a possible future son-in-law to “Eat, eat. Help yourself. You’re too thin. Have some more.” That was not part of Mother’s tradition. On the other hand, the Rich’s had four daughters. Grandmother Rich simply didn’t know a young man’s appetites.

As a pastor, Dad made house calls. These invariably included something to eat. This meant that Dad came home already full. But he ate a second dinner anyway. That was easier than explaining to Mother.

Dad said that when he retired he'd like to be a short order cook. I think he really meant, he just liked to talk to people.

Everybody loved Sherry Bell.

I’ve inherited some of Dad’s appetites. One of my nicknames with Chanticleer was ‘Piranha.’ And Dennis loved the time I ate at the Bohemian Club with some fellow choristers on a Thursday night. There were ten of us at a round table. I ate as usual, and carried on an extensive discussion about economic or political matters. When I looked up, everybody was staring at me – and at their watches. Alex Hargrave—from my jazz quintet –had placed bets. I finished ahead of even their fastest projections.

At times, this has been an advantage. When Chanticleer sang at an early music competition in Bruges, Belgium in 1981, the choir of Kings College Cambridge gave a concert at one of the major churches. The ticket line was horrendous and our group had not yet had dinner; so I volunteered to wait in line for all of us. After getting the tickets, I ordered – half an hour after everyone else— and finished first.

Nine years ago, on a Sunday in April, I signed out of Vespers to hear a performance of Mahler’s Ninth with the San Francisco Symphony. I left Saint Francis right after the motet and before the hymn, and managed to get a taxi to Davies Symphony Hall. But it wasn’t until intermission that I remembered I had not eaten any breakfast--only three cups of coffee. So I waited in line at Dress Circle. Just as I ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a glass of champagne, the bell rang. I managed to eat all the chicken—if not all the lettuce – and to gulp down the champagne. That was probably a mistake, because halfway through the symphony, I desperately needed to go to the loo. But I waited until the end. I thanked my friend, Joan, for her extra ticket, and promptly excused myself.

(When I wrote that, I hadn’t realized that that afternoon's service would be my last performance with the Schola Cantorum for several months. I had had a mild case of bronchitis since our return from Italy in 2003, and my Nurse Practitioner at Kaiser recommended a reduced schedule through the summer in order to recuperate completely. While away from the Schola a few months, I worked on some art projects.)

My Dad’s great friend Helen Heisey had taught art at the Harrisburg Academy on the river just a few blocks from our house in the middle fifties.

The Harrisburg Academy then was the old Wallower family mansion, a beautiful brick Georgian revival house... now replaced with three office buildings and a bank. Mr. Wallower, a publisher, had been on the board that had hired Dad to come to Grace Church back in 1951. He was a Princeton grad, who encouraged my brother Sherry to go to Princeton. Mr. Wallower lived in a handsome stone French-Normandy-style house on North Front Street by the river.

As a teenager, I went there with Dad to several meetings of the Eclectic Club (a men’s club of college presidents, judges, bankers & other local VIPs, who got together several times a year to read papers on historical, scientific and esoteric matters). Dad later inherited several mahogany bookcases (destroyed in the ’72 flood) two pair of unusual mahogany chairs, and a tall centennial Philadelphia highboy, which Julie had refinished for Mother, and that Cynthia now has in Florida.

Edgar Zollinger Wallower went by his initials E.Z. When Cynthia saw a black and white cocker spaniel at Edelhugh kennels in Dauphin, she asked Mr. Wallower to buy him for her. He said he would, if she would name him. So Cynthia named the puppy “Edelhugh E.Z. Dandy.” We called him EZ. He became Dad’s dog, when Cynthia went to Northfield. Even Mother eventually grew attached to EZ. She had always been the disciplinarian and had refused to allow any dog on the bed. Dad would simply wait for her to go to sleep, then signal for him to jump up. Dad was more direct in feeding EZ under the table, which, of course, annoyed Mother even more. EZ eventually accompanied me to California.

Back to my eating …I don't blame my culinary habits on my Father, or my Mother. It is my responsibility— my choice, my joy— to eat more slowly, to appreciate food— the sacrifice that is a gift of life. (I can still hear Dennis say that I’ll never change. And Deborah Sweeney has commented that I’m rather patrician……except for my table manners.) [Occasionally, I have managed to eat as my Mother would have preferred. Check out my 10/03/08 posting "Memories of France in 1980."]

Sometimes it can be a question of time. Old habits can be difficult to change. For five or six years, I had an outrageous schedule on Thursday evenings. I sang at Grace Cathedral. We had rehearsal at 5:00, Evensong at 5:15 –generally over at 6:00— then another rehearsal after dinner from 7:00 to 9:30. Only, I didn’t eat dinner. I left after the anthem, changed clothes, and dashed down the hill to the Bohemian Club— quickly munched some hot hors d’oeuvres— & then was usually a few minutes late for the required rehearsal.

As an associate member, I had to attend these rehearsals during the choirmen's dinner break in order to qualify for the privilege of membership. It was my choice. I was just grateful that the buildings were in close proximity; even if the return trip was all up hill. This crazy schedule allowed me many opportunities to perform in several groups.

My Dad was certainly a gifted performer, particularly in community theater productions. I think the first play he did with HCT, the Harrisburg Community Theater, was G. B. Shaw's The Devil’s Disciple, in which he played a patriotic New England preacher during the American Revolution. That role certainly fit, and was produced sometime in the middle 'fifties.

He was considered too old for another favorite role he had wanted to play. Dad was bemused when later they cast him as Feste the Clown in Twelfth Night, when he had to romp all over the stage and down the aisles in tights. Several people commented that he had rather nice legs. (See, I got to Twelfth Night eventually.)

The second Mrs. Wallower laughed and laughed with Dad around her kitchen table and regaled his performance as Feste the Clown …. the night before she died in her sleep. What a nice way to go!

Image:shakespeare-art museum-miniatures.jpg

SHERIDAN WATSON BELL, JR. ~ December 21, 1908 ~ October 30, 1982

How difficult to believe...my Dad, Sherry Bell, the Rev. Dr. Sheridan Watson Bell, Jr., was born one-hundred-six years ago today!! Dad was the youngest of four children, as am I, so my paternal grandfather, Sheridan Watson Bell, Sr., whom I never knew, was born during the American Civil War!!

Sherry Bell was a loving man of conviction, warmth, generosity, passion, impulse, flamboyance, gusto, humor, spontaneity, balance, dedication, support, vocal gifts, drama, wise counsel, compassion and faith: a pastor of people, rather than a great preacher, though occasionally a speaker of profound ideas and natural eloquence. I’m lucky and so very proud that he was my Father.

***

Today is also the greatly anticipated end of the Mayan Calendar. See you all tomorrow!

ENGLISH BILL OF RIGHTS ~ December 16, 1689

The Bill of Rights (a short title) is an act of the Parliament of England, whose title is An Act Declaring the Rights and Liberties of the Subject and Settling the Succession of the Crown. It is often called the English Bill of Rights. It was adopted December 16, 1689.

The Bill of Rights was passed by Parliament in December 1689 and was a re-statement in statutory form of the Declaration of Right, presented by the Convention Parliament to William and Mary in March 1688, inviting them to become joint sovereigns of England. It enumerates certain rights to which subjects and permanent residents of a constitutional monarchy were thought to be entitled in the late 17th century, asserting subjects' right to petition the monarch, as well as to have arms in defence. It also sets out—or, in the view of its drafters, restates—certain constitutional requirements of the Crown to seek the consent of the people, as represented in parliament.

Along with the 1701 Act of Settlement the Bill of Rights remains, today, one of the main constitutional laws governing the succession to not only the throne of the United Kingdom, but, following British colonialism, the resultant doctrine of reception, and independence, also to those of the other Commonwealth realms, whether by willing deference to the act as a British statute or as a patriated part of the particular realm's constitution. Since the implementation of the Statute of Westminster in each of the Commonwealth realms (on successive dates from 1931 onwards) the Bill of Rights cannot be altered in any realm except by that realm's own parliament, and then, by convention, and as it touches on the succession to the shared throne, only with the consent of all the other realms.

In the United Kingdom, the Bill of Rights is further accompanied by the Magna Carta, Habeas Corpus Act 1679 and Parliament Acts 1911 and 1949 as some of the basic documents of the uncodified British constitution. A separate but similar document, the Claim of Right Act, applies in Scotland. Further, a bill of rights has been listed, in Republic of Ireland's Statute Law Revision (Pre-Union), as an English act of parliament to be retained as part of the country's law. The English Bill of Rights 1689 inspired in large part the United States Bill of Rights.

Image & text:wikipedia.com

Today is also the birthday of my brother, Sheridan Watson Bell, III. Sherry has been a wonderful brother to me, my friends and partners, and to my several dogs.

SHERIDAN WATSON BELL, JR. 12/21/08~10/30/82 *

After lunch with his great friend Helen Heisey at the Dodge City steak house, a few blocks from the Harrisburg Arts Council building— where they both served on the council— my Dad, Sherry Bell had a stroke in early June 1982.

I think they took him immediately to the Harrisburg Hospital. By the time I got home from California, he was moved to the Polyclinic. I believe we parked our car in one of the lots that used to be part of the McFarland Rose Gardens.

My sister Julie consulted and researched to find the best surgeon for Dad. We were told it would be preferable to have the surgery done at Temple Hospital in Philadelphia (where Ken Heisey had gone to Dental School). He was given anti-coagulants and told to rest all summer in preparation for surgery on his carotid artery in the fall.

The whole family: Mother, Julie, Sherry, Cynthia and I came to spend several weeks with Dad. We visited him every day. We stayed with Mother’s cousins, George and Bonnie Whiting, in Ambler, a pastoral suburb north of Philadelphia.

I also visited the Philadelphia Art Museum and the wonderful Rodin Gallery. One Sunday I walked from the museum up Broad Street to Temple Hospital. I hadn’t realized the hospital was considerably further north of the university. I was startled by the devastation – block after block of boarded up row houses!

I spent a whole morning with Mother buying fabric to make flags for a show she was putting on at Camp Hill Methodist Church. Why she had to make flags, I’ll never know. Dennis and I have dozens of flags, which we’ve purchased – and some quite reasonably. But we all know how frugal Mother was.

I was with Dad when the news broke about Grace Kelly’s auto accident and tragic death.

Then I returned to San Francisco, since Dad seemed to be doing better, and was going to be released to recuperate at home before undergoing a second operation on his carotid artery on the opposite side.

The night before Dad was to be released from the hospital, Helen gave him the porcelain Lladro Don Quixote she had been saving for a special occasion.

That same night, Friday the 29th of October 1982, Ross and I went to a double feature at the Castro Theatre to see “Victor, Victoria” and “Some Like it Hot.” Ross was in a grumpy mood for some reason, but I had a terrific time, and laughed and laughed …. guffawed out loud.

Very early the next morning, Saturday, October 30th, I got a call from Sherry in Paris. Just before his release from Temple Hospital, Dad’s heart stopped.

I immediately telephoned Helen at Misty Point. She had left him only a few hours before.

I was able to get a red-eye flight into Baltimore. Mother and Julie picked me up at the airport Sunday morning for the drive to Harrisburg. Cynthia asked if I wanted to see Dad before he was cremated. I declined, preferring to remember him as he had been. (Though, years later I took photographs of Mother right after she died.)

I learned that the plan was to have the funeral the next day, Monday, November 1st (All Saints Day) in Woolrich –for just the immediate family.

Halfway to Woolrich, Cynthia suddenly cried out: “Stop the car!” The urn with Dad’s ashes was in the trunk. Lovingly, she carried him in her arms for the remainder of the journey.

I was surprised to see that Mother’s headstone was already in place beside Dad’s. I had seen it before, but had forgotten. It needed only the final date.

After the noon hillside gravesite service, Aunt Katie and Uncle Roz hosted a luncheon for us at their home in Sagamore Hills. Then we drove back to Harrisburg.

Helen turned to plans for a memorial service for Dad at Grace Church set for Wednesday November 3rd. Dad had made Mother promise that the funeral would not be at Grace Church – because of his awkward leaving a few years before. By a technicality, it wasn’t. But as Mother told us children: “Funerals are for the living, not for the dead. And I have to live in this town.”

So we had a memorial service on November 3rd at Grace with Father Bill, Bishop William Keeler (now retired Cardinal Archbishop of Baltimore) as the principal eulogist. Almost a thousand people attended. At least, it was a very full church.

Mother asked me if I would like to sing at Dad’s service. I said: “No, I couldn’t possibly.” She reminded me of my promise to sing at hers.

The night before, I had several phone conversations with Helen. Bishop Keeler had wanted the lyrics to “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha. That had been one of Dad’s greatest roles at the Harrisburg Community Theater. Since this was before the internet, I called my old octet director, Paul Suerken at the Mercersburg Academy. I recalled that the glee club had sung “The Impossible Dream” back in 1966 or ’67.

A few days later I assisted Mother with her flag show at Camp Hill Methodist. I wore Dad’s Gunn plaid kilt. He had worn it only once – to show Connie Leightner, our next door neighbor— just a few days before his stroke.

It was a good thing I went with Mother. She was a mess. The movie projector didn’t work, or somebody had forgotten to do something. There was no sound. But Mother had slides of various European Cathedrals. I winged it. At times I guess I have a little of Dad’s stage presence. I took the microphone and made extemporaneous comments on slides, when I didn’t even know which one was coming next. I think I performed fairly well. Mother was very appreciative. People, of course, were extremely supportive. The flag parade, however, was a disaster. Nobody knew what Mother wanted. I guess it was a little like the “precision” routines of the Yale Football Band. They just ran helter-skelter into formations.

I spent a few good weeks with Mother before returning to San Francisco.

Sherry Bell was a loving man of conviction, warmth, generosity, passion, impulse, flamboyance, gusto, humor, spontaneity, balance, dedication, support, vocal gifts, drama, wise counsel, compassion and faith: a pastor of people, rather than a great preacher, though occasionally a speaker of profound ideas and natural eloquence. I’m lucky and very proud that he was my Dad.

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

Death is no enemy--

Only fear betrays,

Death is sweet release

From life’s enigma

It is escape from pain

And God’s solicitude

For man who stands alone

And wonders at his place

So small -- so insecure

So fractional

For death reveals the whole

Of life -- not its terror.

Sheridan Watson Bell, Jr.

To his favorite sister, Alice

Before her death 30 August 1957

* The Rev. Dr. Sheridan W. Bell, Jr. welcoming members of the board from Temple Ohev Sholom to Grace Methodist Church after the synagogue was flooded in Hurricaine Agnes in 1972

TIME & MORTALITY

My father, Sherry Bell, Sheridan Watson Bell, Jr., died twenty-six years ago this October 30 --about seven weeks before his 74^th birthday. His funeral was on November 1, 1982... All Saints Day.

Late this morning I attended the funeral of a twenty-eight year old co-worker, who died of liver failure. Her age made it particularly sad, more so than Adam K’s grandmother's funeral the week before. Of course, in the larger scheme of things – in geological time— there’s not really much difference between 28 years, 82 years, or two months.

I recall an incident regarding time when I was six. I went with Daddy on a call to the Dauphin County Home. I stayed in the car. He said he would be a ‘minute.’ It was probably closer to half an hour. The next week I was walking to school with my sister Cynthia. As we passed the McFarland Rose Garden, she said to hurry up or we'd be late. We had only two minutes. I said we had plenty of time.

What is time? What is life? ……What is death?

We spend our days and minutes, indeed our lives, reflecting constant past, projecting constant future-- the present never really is. But in another sense, all that really is, is Eternal Now.

As a P.K. (Preacher's Kid) son and grandson of Methodist ministers, and great-great-great grandson of an 18th Century Methodist circuit rider on my mother's side, I grew up in the Church. But as some of my Jewish friends consider themselves atheist or at least agnostic— and real Jews; so it was with me as a "cultural Christian." For years I spent more time in church than the rest of my family. That was because I was a professional singer— a music mercenary. I loved the liturgy and music for its own sake. I wasn't certain there was any substance. Oh sure, religion attempted to answer some questions and to provide meaning for existence, but I had doubts about the ability of organized religion to address these issues in any authentic way. I was still left with the question: "How do you explain God?"

My Father was a wise man. He knew I was searching--that was all that mattered.

After exploration of other traditions--especially Buddhist and Vedantic— I have let myself be open to experience the validity of my own western religious background. The basic problem with religion is that it is essentially non-verbal. As soon as I attempt to describe religious experience, I face the limitations of language itself. Yet I have come to believe that the great religions of the world are repositories of religious truth— it isn't on the surface-- most people never find it— and those who do are usually rejected by society at large. It is the task and the joy of some in each generation to peal away the layers of the onion. As some have said, "All paths lead to the top of the mountain." Or others," All wells—if deep enough— reach the under-ground spring." The important task is to choose a path and follow it, or start digging a well. I believe (in the Greek sense of the verb in the creed— I have let myself be still in order to experience) that there is a God, a Creator of all life, who loves his Creation. In time all Creation (vegetable, mineral as well as animal) will be redeemed.

This acceptance has been an evolution for me. At one time I was convinced that life was but a cruel joke and that it would be far better to get over with it. (When I was a child I became extremely agitated by suspense in TV or movies. Over the years my reactions have been a source of amusement for my friends. Even today, with a rented video [or now with DVDs], I sometimes fast-forward during the suspenseful parts. When I know what's going to happen, I can look at it without embarrassing myself. It is a fear of the unknown. Perhaps that same fear played an element in my junior year college crisis. While I fancied myself a nihilist, I was afraid of death; but, as it was the only certainty, why not embrace it?)

The idea that spiritual consciousness might evolve— that my consciousness evolves— that Jesus' (Joshua ben Joseph's) spiritual consciousness evolved was a concept that opened possibilities for religious faith. The very aspects about the movie and book The Last Temptation of Christ that were so offensive to some Fundamentalists are the very ones which appeal to me. That Jesus at the outset of the movie screamed he was a sinner, and heard voices (depicted a little like Jeanne d'Arc's voices) suggested that there was an evolution in Jesus' consciousness. (Can you imagine anything more blasphemous to a devout Jew of the First Century than voices proclaiming you to be the Son of God? No wonder he thought he was a sinner in the context of the film. Perhaps some voices were temptation in the wilderness; but others traditionally were valid). This depiction of evolution in Jesus' consciousness resonates with me. If his consciousness did not evolve, then Jesus knew in Mary's womb that he was the third part of the Trinity, Creator of the world. If he knew how things would turn out— could run the video forward, as it were, and know, really know that he would rise from the dead on the Third Day— then the Crucifixion is meaningless: no worse than going to the Dentist. Jesus had to surrender— to risk. He had to believe, but not fully know how events would resolve. He had to trust. Only then can he be a model for us: otherwise, a sovereign, perhaps; but not a model.

I have come to experience continuity. I cannot intellectually conceive of life beyond death; but as St. Paul said: "Now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face." I am confident that I shall. Dad related to me that he had experienced an extraordinary sense of ease at his own Father’s death. All was right. All…….is right.

HEART ATTACK

Two months ago, I had an internal defibrillator procedure at Kaiser. It’s a little like having a small cell phone on my chest. My defibrillator is about four times bigger than a pace-maker. The point is not so much to enhance my day-to-day activities, as to provide insurance against sudden cardiac arrest, for which I guess I’m at serious risk. I had a major heart attack forty-nine months ago.

I suppose if you’re going to have a heart attack, I had mine at an optimal time. I recently read an article about the efficacy of angioplasty and of stents. Its conclusion was that preventative stents are of questionable value—that the gold standard for inserting stents needs to be within an hour of a severe heart attack. That qualification fit my scenario to a ‘T.’

Saturday August 28^th, 2004 was the wedding of Dan Hutchings & Rachael Lu, musician friends (Dan of the Schola Cantorum at St. Francis) in the Green Room of the War Memorial Veteran’s building next to the opera house. Dan sang Schubert and Rachael accompanied him on the piano.

Dennis and I went to the ceremony and reception in the same room and sat at the table with Tom Hart from Chanticleer days. He said I looked terrific.

Earlier that day, I had gone to William Stout Architectural Books near work and bought a huge folio of Karl Friedrich Schinkel, the great 19th Century German architect. The book weighs about 80 pounds. I brought it home by taxi, but carried it upstairs and moved it around several times before settling on the floor in front of the Napoleon window in the dining room.

When I later suggested to my cardiologist, Sheryl Garrett, that this might have been the proximate cause of my heart attack the following morning, she agreed. She said it was the first time she had heard of a heart attack caused by a book! More common was somebody lifting a car engine.

On Sunday morning I woke up early, sopping wet. I frequently sweat a lot at night, but this was different. Dennis was still asleep. I decided to take a shower, which was probably not such a hot idea. Then Dennis got up and went down to the garden to read the paper, drink his coffee and have a smoke. I think I had some coffee. I’m sure I had already made a pot for him. Still sweating after my shower, and starting to feel a sharp pain in my back, I called to Dennis in the garden and asked him to make some phone calls for me. To demonstrate my priorities, the first was to John Renke, my organist and choir director at St. Francis, to let him know that I wouldn’t sing at church that morning. Then I asked Dennis to call the advice nurse at Kaiser.

Dennis described my symptoms to the advice nurse. As we were talking to her, my left arm started to go numb. She immediately said to call 911. Dennis offered to drive me to Kaiser, but the nurse insisted he call 911, which of course, he did. Within minutes there were six or seven strapping firemen in the house, hooking me up to all kinds of things and injecting me with whatever is standard procedure. Then they strapped me into a chair and carried me down to their emergency van, which must have been only a few blocks a- way when they received the call. For some reason they went up Fair Oaks to 20th St and then to Dolores on the way to Kaiser on Geary. I think Dennis was with me in the emergency van.

When we got to Kaiser, I was immediately taken to the emergency room. It turns out that Kaiser’s Cardiac headquarters for Northern California is at that very location. Had I been taken to a different Kaiser facility, I would have been transferred to that one. Within half an hour or so, I had an angioplasty with two stents. One of my main cardiac arteries had been 99% blocked. It was a heart attack waiting to happen.

Most heart attacks occur on Monday mornings about 8:00 am. I guess people are apprehensive about going back to work. I suppose my parallel is that Sundays used to be work days for me, when the Schola Cantorum had regular services every Sunday (until we got fired).

Fortunately, Karl Friedrich Schinkel caused my attack to occur early on a Sunday morning, when the emergency vehicle was close by, there was very light traffic, and when I had the actual heart attack the very moment we were consulting the advice nurse!

Dr. Sheryl Garrett was the doctor on call in the emergency room that day. She was not my surgeon, but heard about my arrival. Dr. Garrett later told me she has had two most memorable experiences among the hundreds of cardiac patients she has treated during her seven years at Kaiser. The first was a seventy-eight year old woman who had cardiac arrest the very instant Dr. Garrett shook her hand. The patient survived, then years later had another heart attack, and was still alive when I heard about her story.

The second memorable experience was seeing Dennis in the lobby outside the emergency room. Dr. Garrett had not yet met me, but had heard of my circumstances. She surveyed the waiting room and noticed Dennis among the group of people there. Immediately she knew who he was. She said his great concern, fear and love was absolutely palpable.

Although I was initially surprised by my heart attack, I really shouldn’t have been. There is significant history of heart disease on both sides of my family. Dad had his first heart attack at thirty-nine when he tried to hold his breath while swimming under water the full length of a pool. Then he had another one a few years later. I remember visiting him in the Harrisburg Hospital when I was three or four years old. Of course, his dramatic cardiac arrest was in 1977 when he was sixty-eight. That was when Dad collapsed after giving a tight three minute roast of the mayor at the auditorium of the Hershey Medical Center, and Helen screamed and followed Dad in the ambulance –and Mother was left behind because she was trying to stay out of the way of the care givers. Many people thought Helen was Mrs. Bell. Dad’s performance ended the show! Lastly Dad died of a heart attack the day he was supposed to be released from Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia on October 30, 1982, about seven weeks before his 74th birthday. He had been treated for a major stroke the previous June, and was going home to recuperate before a scheduled operation on his other carotid artery.

Dad’s favorite sister Alice died of heart disease in her late fifties. And Mother’s mother, Julia Trump Rich, died of heart failure about age sixty-five.

Recently, of course, was the unexpected death of my first cousin Roswell Brayton, Jr. As his sister Anne said: “He was the golden boy. Nobody expected him to die so young.” He was almost the same age as I when I had my attack – a few months after his 55th birthday. Rozzie was the genuine athlete in the family. He was the star pitcher on his Harvard baseball team and made the Harvard Sports Hall of Fame. I guess he was also a fanatic golfer, as were many others of my Mother’s family. He had a wooden box full of score cards from every golf game he had ever played (over a thousand). It was buried with him in his casket. And since his father had lived until his early eighties, Rozzie had every expectation that he would do likewise. Nevertheless, he evidently had already planned that detail of his funeral.

The irony was, he died doing cardio in the company gym in Woolrich. I suppose the hard decisions he had taken to make Woolrich competitive to survive in the new global economy took its toll. As President and CEO of the family company, he had had to let go almost 80% of the US workforce. I’m convinced it killed him.

I just received word from Dennis’ step-mom Evelyn that his step-sister Jackie’s husband died of a heart attack last week. The shame was he wasn’t feeling well and went in for a check-up, but the hospital didn’t do any tests for heart condition and thought instead he was coming down with pneumonia. He went back to work and died a few days later at the farm co-op in Clarence, Iowa.

Dennis had been sick for years, and I had been preparing myself to be a caregiver to him. The amazing thing is I never anticipated that he would be such a marvelous caregiver to me. I’ll always be grateful that I survived to be there for him at his end.