Remembering a friend

I attended a funeral earlier this month, the first one I’ve gone to in
nearly a decade. Back in the late ’80s when I was an AIDS volunteer, I
went to so many funerals I never wanted to go to another one again. But
then my friend Arlene was attacked in 1995 by
amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, also called Lou Gehrig’s Disease).
ALS is a progressive neuro motor disease that renders the body totally
helpless while the brain remains as bright and clear as ever. Steven Hawking
is the most famous example of someone living with ALS. It’s an awful disease.
It spent two years killing Arlene. I cried at her funeral.

ALS also took two years to kill my friend Gregory Taylor, the owner of
a spectacular gift shop here in Long Beach named Babcock & Cooke. Every
September and October for more than twenty-five years, I went to Gregory’s
store to buy witches. I bet sixty percent of my 350 witches came from him.
I’d walk around and pick up this witch and that one, and then Gregory and
I would stand and talk for upwards of an hour before I’d make a decision
and buy just two or three new witches instead of a dozen. I wrote about
collecting witches and visiting with Gregory a year ago. He used to tell
me about the business trips he made every summer to artists across the
U.S., when he bought the most beautiful witches and other gifts he could
find.




And then, two years ago, I walked into Babcock & Cooke and there was
Gregory leaning on a walker. He told me the news. He sounded as cheery
as ever. As we talked about ALS, I told him about Arlene. It hit her first
in the throat; it got him in the legs. He said he was lucky because he
could still drive and pick his son up after school for some quality time
together, also that he was still seeing his regular customers. One year
later, the disease had overtaken him so thoroughly that he made the hard
decision to close the store. It broke my heart and the hearts of all his
other friends and faithful customers.




I found Gregory’s funeral very interesting. I can’t remember the last
time I was in a Catholic church. Basically, I stood up or sat down when
the priest gestured to the congregation, but I didn’t know the responses,
so I sat quietly and behaved myself. (That’s a lesson I learned a long
time ago: be respectful of other people’s churches.) I also watched as
the Catholics present took communion. There was a picture of Gregory—boy,
was he handsome!—on an easel in front of the altar. The funeral mass opened
with “Amazing Grace,” and then the families of Gregory and his partner
walked forward and took their seats. His son carried the box containing
his ashes. I met Gregory’s partner and their son when they adopted the
boy, who was, I guess, about ten years old at the time. Now he’s a freshman
in college and an accomplished surfer, a skill he learned from his father.
The priest began his sermon (homily?) by quoting the song “Seasons of Love”
from
Rent. You know it, of course—“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six
hundred minutes….” Gregory spent the seasons of his life gardening, running
his store, doing good works, being kind to people, and making friends.
Gregory’s brother, his partner, and his son all eulogized him. After the
service, I spoke briefly with Gregory’s partner. “I’m the one who came
in every year and bought witches.” He remembered.




There’s a new store in Long Beach now. It’s a sort of Son of Babcock &
Cooke and is right next to the old store. (The space is now owned by someone
else.) I don’t know the details of the transaction, but Gregory gave his
long-time employee, Mike, permission to use the name Babcock & Cooke.
The new store is about a quarter of the size of the old one and sells mostly
cards. Realizing I had a tradition to maintain, I went in last month looking
for witches. Hooray! Mike had half a dozen on a front shelf. We had a long,
friendly conversation, during which he said Gregory was still cheerful
but failing, and then I bought a small witch. She is now standing on a
bookshelf with a dozen of her sisters.

Gregory—thank you for being my friend all these years. To paraphrase the
crones in
Secret Lives, who would have gone shopping at your store (which,
I think, was newly opened at the time the action of the novel takes place)
if I’d remembered to send them to you.
And when he comes ’round again, let him come ’round in joy, let him come
’round in peace, let him come ’round in love.