Yesterday I attended a memorial celebration for someone I
knew when he and I were kids. We weren't exactly friends. Floyd was a year
ahead of me in my brother Paul's class, but we all attended a small American
school, so even if we traveled in different circles, everyone knew each other's
names. Floyd was quiet and bookish and not prone to mischief like the rest of
us in 7th and 8th grade. I don't recall him being bullied; he just flew under the radar.
Fast forward more than forty years. His younger sister Susanne
and I have been Facebook friends for awhile and even though our families moved
to various spots on the globe, we all ended up in the Pacific Northwest. It
turns out Floyd has been living in Seattle for the past 30 years but he and I
never got together, but now that I have met his friends and heard stories about
him, I wish we had.
His two sisters hosted the memorial in Floyd's apartment,
which is tastefully decorated with Asian art he collected over the years. Rather
than it being a somber occasion where everyone wore black, the party was a
festive dedication to Floyd's life. On a corner table Susanne had set up a continuous
slide show with photos from Floyd's baby years up to his recent demise. Each
guest saw moments from his life where they recalled him best.
At one point in the party Susanne and their other Kate
invited friends to tell tales about Floyd. Most of these were funny, such as
the man who said he met Floyd thirty years ago at a local watering hole.
"This guy bumped into to me, wearing a pink shirt, and announced himself
as "Pink Floyd." We've been friends ever since."
The quiet kid I barely noticed in school had developed into
a well read person with a litany of interests. His walls contained framed art,
carefully placed on the walls, that he bought from his many journeys. His
furniture was worn, but complemented the space. The friends I met recounted
having many great conversations in Floyd's living room, and it was a place,
with its balcony view of woods and several glowing the lamps, that welcomed
visitors.
As the party was ending Susanne asked guests to feel free to
take a small remembrance of Floyd. She had set some items on the credenza to
choose from. Later, in the kitchen, she
and I talked about my writing, and my being active with local writing groups.
She asked if I knew children's book author and illustrator Kevan Atteberry. I
said I did. She reached above the sink and pulled a small painting off the wall.
"I want you to have his, then." It was an Atteberry she had bought
for Floyd as a gift.
Even though I didn't know Floyd well, it's nice to see he had an
interesting life, and now something he enjoyed looking at is now hanging above
my own kitchen sink.
Happy Writing.
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