I clipped his obituary from the newspaper - it was two inches long and one column inch wide. That's not a lot of space to accurately reflect 49 years of living, but obituaries and how they're written are another topic for another time.
This friend wasn't a particularly religious person, so the memorial service was more like a wedding reception - big room, round tables, open bar and a PowerPoint presentation filled with pictures that served as a backdrop for the podium. It was nicely miked, and those in attendance were encouraged to get up and share their memories of the man in the photos.
Friend after friend got up and told stories about him, most of them hilarious. I laughed and nodded between bouts of butt ugly crying (people were looking at me with a combination of empathy and horror). I would have liked to have honored him publicly that night, but that's not my thing.
Here's what I would have said if it was.
He was my husband's friend first, part of a group of post-college guys who met every Thursday night at a neighborhood bar - picture a 1990ish King Arthur's court with a bit less debauchery.
He eventually became our friend - one who shared my love of movies and all the trappings that come with them.
His favorite snack at the theatre was junior mints.
He drove like a madman, stomping on the gas and careening around corners for no apparent reason.
He was the perfect person to take house hunting, which we did, even though he lived in apartments his entire adult life.
He opened car doors, supported the small of your back with one of his large, paw-like hands and waited to make sure you made it into your house safely after an outing.
He gave hugs that had meat to them.
He never wore jeans and believed a T-shirt was something you wore underneath your button down.
He insisted on letting wine breathe before you drank it.
He was our viewing companion for all awards shows and was so mortified by bad speeches that he routinely left the room until they were over.
He had secrets, but I'm pretty sure everyone does.
Oscar season won't be the same without him.
Friend after friend got up and told stories about him, most of them hilarious. I laughed and nodded between bouts of butt ugly crying (people were looking at me with a combination of empathy and horror). I would have liked to have honored him publicly that night, but that's not my thing.
Here's what I would have said if it was.
He was my husband's friend first, part of a group of post-college guys who met every Thursday night at a neighborhood bar - picture a 1990ish King Arthur's court with a bit less debauchery.
He eventually became our friend - one who shared my love of movies and all the trappings that come with them.
His favorite snack at the theatre was junior mints.
He drove like a madman, stomping on the gas and careening around corners for no apparent reason.
He was the perfect person to take house hunting, which we did, even though he lived in apartments his entire adult life.
He opened car doors, supported the small of your back with one of his large, paw-like hands and waited to make sure you made it into your house safely after an outing.
He gave hugs that had meat to them.
He never wore jeans and believed a T-shirt was something you wore underneath your button down.
He insisted on letting wine breathe before you drank it.
He was our viewing companion for all awards shows and was so mortified by bad speeches that he routinely left the room until they were over.
He had secrets, but I'm pretty sure everyone does.
Oscar season won't be the same without him.
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