2001-05-05 - 14:46 M DST

THE WONDERING JEW

Hesitate To Meditate

Takes a prod to start one's engine - - at least mine. Heather is out shopping this afternoon. I answered the phone and it was the sister of one of Heather's friends from school. She passed away recently, but was not shown in the Denver obits, as her daughter from Nebraska wanted a private funeral.

The only reason I heard was her sister returning a call from the lady's answering machine. Pity her daughter didn't know that there are paid obits that often run some time after the funeral.

So, when Heather comes home it is my sad duty to break the news. Heather and her friend were close, but usually were only able to socialize at luncheons of the class of 43 which have dwindled to a group of women who were close in school.

And, I look back in a sort of memorial memory at the graduation to the great school, of loved ones and friends of mine.

There were a couple of my friends who died while I was in junior high. But World War Two took most of my friends. The ladies disappeared into marriage. Then Mom when I was twenty two. Friends here and there along the way moved on.

Seems as I get older the rate accelerates in the same rhythm that the years, months, and weeks speed by. Days go by as do weeks, months, and years with seldom a pause to think of those who have preceeded us. I feel guilty, but yet they are in a better place than I. But I do wish I had taken the time to be closer, to show my friendship and love.

But, I keep telling myself, "You can't go home," which applies to other things like backing up and doing it right.

I guess we old poops look at the obit scoreboard each morning to see if we are still here ? Not deliberately hunting sadness, but occasionally being able to send flowers, cards or make a phone call to survivors. Realizing with gratitude and thanks that we are really, still here.

But in this moment I am remembering classmates and friends from my elementary school, in my mind naming each one remembered and remembering good things of ago. On through the years my memory rambles, like telling the beads of a rosary, reliving the good times with friends and relatives in my mind. Feeling as if I have come a bit closer to them by remembering.

For a short time I Hesitate To Meditate . . . . . .

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