Carry On, Mr. Chopin

Tonight I attended a visitation for the father of a long-time friend who died in his sleep last weekend just three months shy of his 93rd birthday.  It was the most joyous wake I've ever attended, truly the celebration of a man who was well-loved, not only by his wife and eight children, but by friends who came to this visitation even if they hadn't seen him in close to 30 years. 


In high school, I loved to visit my friend's house.  I loved everything about it, from the chaos of so many kids under one roof, to her dad asking where we were off to and then telling us to "carry on."  Their house vibrated with the love and joy of the family within.  They even had a dinner bell hanging outside they rang to bring everyone home.  When they heard it, the kids came home and if they were out of range, they were in trouble.  I loved my family, but I always thought if I had grown up in a large family, this would have been the kind I would have wanted to be a part of.  It was like Cheaper By the Dozen come to life.

My friend's father is survived by her mother, and I chatted with her for awhile at the visitation.  She didn't remember me, and I didn't think she would.  I was one of dozens (hundreds?) of kids that came and went through their house over the years.  She told me that she'd asked one of her daughters if Jonathan Franzen had ever been to their house.  Of course he had.  In fact, their house is pivotal in a lie prepared for the police in one of the essays in The Discomfort Zone.

My friend's father was hard-working, funny and kind.  He was also passionate and articulate and lived life to the fullest, even up to the end.  He is an inspiration for how to live your life, surrounded by love and family and enjoying every minute of it.  There wasn't a family member in the funeral parlor who exhibited one shred of remorse or regret.  They were happy to celebrate the man they loved so much.  So it was no surprise to me that his obituary indicated that "if desired, contributions may be made in memory to the charity of choice and live life to its fullest."

I was happy to be there for my friend, someone I love, respect and admire.  I was also there for myself, to say goodbye to that happy memory of my youth, to see how the story ends, as it were.  Tomorrow my friend's father will be buried in the same cemetery as his relatively well-known grandmother, a St. Louis writer named Kate.  I can't say that I think he will rest in peace.  I'm sure he's at peace, but I can't imagine him resting.  So carry on, Mr. Chopin.