Now there was great Uncle Julius
And Aunt Annie Mueller
And Mary and Granddaddy Paul
And there was Hanna and Ella
And Alvin and Alec
He owned his own funeral hall
And there are more I remember
And more I could mention
Than words I could write in a song
But I feel them watching
And I see them laughing
And I hear them singing along
We’re all gonna be here forever
So Mama don’t you make such a stir
Just put down that camera
And come on and join up
The last of the family reserve
Lyle Lovett, The Last of the Family Reserve, Joshua Judges Ruth
My family’s memorial tradition is to recall all of the crazy things that someone did during his or her lifetime in order to laugh as much as possible in the face of grief. For example, when my father died my Uncle Orville and his daughter Ruth drove 300 miles to be with us the night following his death so that he could help soften the blow of our loss by telling stories about the weird, wonderful times he shared with my father. Somewhere in between tales of giant breakfasts fixed by two large men who had thrown everyone else out of the kitchen and the lighting of strings of fire crackers on many Fourths of July in the backyard of our old farmhouse on Boyer Street in Walla Walla, all of us – my mother, my sister, my two brothers, and I – rediscovered our ability to laugh and found the ability to begin coping.
It wasn’t until three or four months later when Uncle Orville died himself that I came to understand the true worth of the gift he gave to us that night. For it was only at his death that we learned he had been suffering from very painful bone marrow cancer when he paid his visit, having first sworn his daughter-chauffeur to secrecy about the fact of his illness before setting out on the journey.
And so it is that the memory of that evening of laughing in the face of death is as important to me as my memories of the lives that both men lived. The lesson I learned and took to heart that evening was simple: death is as much a part of a life as the living of it, and the only means to deal with death is through laughter and fond remembrance of those lost.
Laughter should always be the essential ingredient of remembrance. There is nothing sorrier than remembrance which dwells solely on the details of a death and ignores the truths and foibles of a life well-lived. However my death may occur, I don’t wish to be remembered for the manner of its occurrence, since its means will have been imposed upon me and will not be something I willed or desired. To remember only the drinking of the wine is to forget the long growth and careful culturing of the vines which bore the grapes, the sweetness of the grapes themselves on the day they were picked, and the subsequent toil of harvesting the grapes and distilling the wine. One might as well remember the shape of the bottle in which the wine came, as to focus solely upon how it tasted.
This brings me to my friend and client, Charlie Murtagh, a man who knew how to laugh.
Charlie was a friend before he was my client, and our friendship was always the primary element in our relationship. Charlie was a modest, decent man with an oversized sense of humor. He worked at life, as only the finest do. After a career selling insurance which did not fulfill him and a failed marriage which disappointed him, Charlie decided to open his own pizza parlor. His first attempt was in a city, and it was an unqualified success. In fact, it became two pizza parlors which threatened to grow into more.
As much of a success as it was, Charlie found a chain of pizza parlors unfulfilling. And so it was that he let his ex-wife take the potential chain and he moved to a nearby, small town in Humptulips County where he opened a single establishment. She subsequently lost the chain, and he subsequently found his true calling. Living alone with his dog and running a pizza parlor for his neighbors and the occasional traveler was what Charlie was destined to do. For above all else, Charlie was an Irish raconteur and the pizza parlor simultaneously allowed him a living, a podium for his stories, and the means of becoming beloved by his community.
As a client, Charlie was never a source of a living for me as his legal needs were small. Whether or not my partners ever knew it, I represented Charlie more for the laughs than for the money. On average, once a month during Charlie’s time as a pizza parlor owner and after I would receive a small blue envelope containing a single sheet of equally small blue notepaper on which would be written some inanity or other that had occurred to Charlie and which he simply had to put down in print for the sheer joy of having his say.
For example, one such, sent after he sold the pizza parlor, began:
“This may be out of your area of expertise but perhaps you can point me in the right direction. Incidentally if you are muttering to yourself the old son of a bitch has time on his hands so he is going to be bothering me with his harebrained schemes weekly, you are correct.”
And he wasn’t kidding! The blue envelopes became an expected event, bringing the joy of anticipation upon arriving unopened (as I insisted they do) on my desk. And, when they didn’t come for some reason, we would drive to the pizza parlor for dinner in order to prime the pump for more. After his retirement, we primed the pump by inviting him to drive his battered old pickup to the farm for dinner.
It is only as I write this, that I finally notice a pattern of our either paying him for dinner or providing him with dinner. The old rascal! His stories drew in my entire family; he truly earned his living as a raconteur.
Charlie was equally a friend of my son Peter. When Peter was small, he and I used to visit Charlie at the unopened pizza parlor on Saturday mornings while Charlie was making dough or sauce, grating cheese, or chopping ingredients. He used to make me wait in the dining area while he took Peter into the kitchen to teach him how to make small, individual sized pizzas that were for Peter’s consumption. Since Charlie was no more than a child at heart, Peter and Charlie became fast friends.
Pizza was an art form for Charlie and, he claimed, invented by the Irish. Once he demonstrated for me (after first making carefully certain that no one else was watching) the addition of the secret ingredient for which his sauce was known by pouring an entire bottle of cheap red plonk into a large vat of simmering sauce. After he sold the pizza parlor, I complained to him that the pizza was no longer as good as it was when Charlie had owned it. It wasn’t only the stories that were missing, as Charlie himself subsequently noted to me:
“You are correct. I casually watched them make the dough and the sauce several times. They have changed the recipes.
“Did you overlook the fresh garlic?” “Didn’t you see me put in the powdered stuff? Same thing, garlic is garlic.”
“Isn’t that more water than I used to put in?” “Yeah the dough rolls out easier that way.”
For all of Charlie’s casualness and for all of the wildness of his stories, he was, at heart, a perfectionist who took pride in whatever he did, including the making of some of the finest pizza it was ever my privilege to enjoy.
Charlie became a fixture in his small town of choice. When he owned the pizza parlor he would invite one local elementary school class a month to come enjoy pizza for free on a Friday afternoon. After he sold the pizza parlor, he would go to the school and read stories to the children, animatedly acting out all of the parts rather than being content to merely read the words. Knowing Charlie, he undoubtedly started this process with the promotion his business chiefly in mind, but, by the time he gave his last classroom performance, it would have been solely out of his gratitude for the privilege of having lived his life in the small town which became his domain and due to his love for its inhabitants, young and old. For Charlie lived his life according to the advice of his fellow Irishman, Brendan Behan: “All publicity is good, except an obituary notice.”
Charlie died suddenly one weekday morning, alone in his apartment with his dog. He collapsed while shaving and died instantly. I was gobsmacked upon learning of his death, since, by that time, my world had been full of Charlie for over twenty years.
While I dreaded going to Charlie’s memorial service, it became a thing of wonder. It had been promoted as a chance to come and remember Charlie. Since I intensely dislike public speaking and knew that I had no choice other than to go to Charlie’s service and publicly remember my friend, I was in agony – until I remembered the small blue envelopes containing the small blue notepaper. I had saved them all.
On the morning of the service, I arrived early at my office, found Charlie’s file and began to read. And then I began to laugh aloud. I created a document containing Charlie’s more memorable quotes (those that I thought I could judiciously speak aloud without censorship at a public memorial service).
Much of the town turned out in an old hall and listened as a minister said a few words. The service was not intended to be religious as Charlie had long abhorred the trappings of religion. Several preceded me at the microphone, as I waited my turn. When the time came for me to rise and speak, I tremblingly told his assembled friends and family that while I didn’t have the words to express my recollections of Charlie, I had something better – Charlie’s words. After explaining about blue envelopes, I began to read his words aloud. At some point the reading became a telling – Charlie’s voice overrode mine and Charlie told his stories for the final time.
Memories of Charlie continue to comfort me. Before writing this piece, I read again several of his saved letters and, once again, Charlie came vibrantly alive – if only in my heart. Charlie’s laughter is clear as a bell in this early morning hours in which I write, and mingles with mine in the quiet of my library.
I am warmed anew by his ongoing friendship and the gaiety of our combined laughter.
