Since my wife's death three years ago, I have felt a sense of kinship with the funeral crashers in the 1971 film "Harold and Maude." I, too, find sharing in the passing of someone else a way to escape my own comfort zone as well as a chance to experience emotions I generally repress. The recent service for my 93-year-old friend Lou Starr was particularly therapeutic.
I met Lou 13 years ago. Along with his wife, Francis, and their poodle, Smokey, he was taking a walk in our Central Area neighborhood. Crowned with a fedora, and wearing a suit and wing-tipped shoes, Lou had that friendly, "grandfather knows best" way about him. Francis, clad in an elaborate kimono, always had a warm smile. As for Smokey, his "foo-foo" appearance belied his ankle-nipping tendencies.
This was a very loving and inseparable couple. Francis' passing took quite a toll on Lou. It was during this time that we began to spend more time together. We would regularly go to "our place," the Old Country Buffet, where together we rejoiced in spending endless afternoons eating and talking.
When Smokey died, Lou, nearing 90, made the painful decision to give up his independence and retire to the Soldiers Home in Orting. Despite the difficult transition, Lou retained his easy-going nature that quickly made him a favorite among residents and staff. On my visits to his new home we continued our gatherings at Jeri's, a quaint diner in town, where we feasted on hobo hash and fruit pies.
Lou endured his share of hardships: he was left motherless at a young age, lived in an orphanage, endured the Depression, was injured in combat during World War II, and was preceded in death by both his daughter and his wife.
Nonetheless, he rarely spoke of his own adversities; instead, he preferred sharing in the lives of those around him. This was expressed by the numerous attendees-men and women, young and old, and of diverse ethnicities-who delivered eulogies during the service.
Lou's grandson Aaron was the first to address the gathering. Aside from his heartfelt praise of his grandfather, Aaron extolled Lou's many virtues. He went on to encourage the audience to live up to his grandfather's principles of helping others and striving for excellence, and ending with the message that Lou's legacy will be measured in how those he touched live their lives. By the time he was done, my head was ringing with the "Rocky" theme song.
Following Aaron's inspirational testimonial, a pall of sadness began to take hold. Many of the subsequent speakers had difficulty talking without being overwhelmed by emotion. The cry fest culminated when a young girl confidently stood before the audience. When she said Lou's name, she froze as her body began trembling and tears began flooding down her face. At this point, a veil of tissue shielded the auditorium.
Some comic relief was provided by the facility's ombudsman. Apparently, our aspiring vocalist accidentally took out the entrance-door window with his wheelchair. For his safety and that of the other residents, a caveat was placed in Lou's medical folder, stating he was to refrain from singing when riding his motorized wheelchair.
Having moved from inspiration, to crying, to laughing, the hall then became utterly silent as two somber-faced servicemen marched to the front of the auditorium. When their mesmerizing shoe pattering came to a sudden halt, we were jolted back into consciousness by shotgun blasts. Lou's fate was then sealed with the eeriness emanating from the bugling of "Taps."
Emotionally drained from the funeral, I drew solace knowing that, in life and in death, this "Starr" will keep shining.
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