My friend George Solomon died. The death notice said suddenly, but I would say he saw it coming. Rushing here to there. Driving like a maniac. Wolfing down meals. Not paying attention to his weight. He wanted to live his life his way, death be damned. Sadly he won’t see his daughter’s nuptials, but he did live to see her become engaged.
People want to take ownership of grieving. Like, I don’t get to feel bad, because I didn’t live across the street from him when he was a kid.
I have been asked how long I knew him, as if the longer you associate with someone, the more understandable the tears. Perhaps, they would like to come to my house to observe how we react to the phone ringing. It will be a while before we stop listening for George’s special ring, a shrill burst that we inserted so we could quickly make a decision whether to answer or not. Sharon would pick up the phone somtimes just to hear him say, “Daisy Duck.”
Not many people out there of interest. Don’t like the guys who live in the past or the ones who never had one. George qualified as an old timer. If the fifties happened again, he probably would have fit in fine. He’d do the depression, too. Cheap to a fault, he never met a salesman he didn’t try to talk into giving a better deal. He even tried to talk the owner of a Judaica store into lowering the price on a cassette of some Rabbi chanting Mariv. They spoke in Yiddish, just like my family did when they didn’t want to kids to understand. The guy finally told him, “the price is the price.” George looked defeated.
Post bout, he needed water. I told him to pull over and I would run into a store and buy two bottles. George didn’t want to spend the money. He called Paperman’s, drove ten minutes out of our way, and had six bottles of water specially chilled for the mourners delivered to the van for the ride back to VT.
A Serious Man, he not only kept the faith for himself and shared it with others. AG, George’s Shul, will have a hard time without him. He honored people in death, keeping alive the concept of the Jewish Burial Society. Who will care for the bodies now that he isn’t around? Who will sit with the bodies? Who will get the plaques? Who will give out aliyas and cater the kiddush?
A large loss for me, I admit. I don’t do friends well. At one time I thought I had a number of them, but I didn’t. Thought I had family, too. Negative there for sure.
Recently, George came to my defense when a shul bully excluded me from OZ’s cemetery committee. George took it quite personally that I had been insulted at a meeting that he had also asked, unbeknownst to the person who had taken CHARGE-Alexander-Haig-style, me to attend. Personna non gratta on a cemetary committee at a Shul; that’s even a new low for me, eh?George complained to the Rabbi, who quite characteristically, told him to let it drop.
George had told me stories about the former Rabbi, a much beloved figure, who had advised him in a similar way about pursuing members who had allegedly stolen money from the shul. “Can you believe that a Rabbi would let people steal from the Shul and not want to do anything about it? You say Shul, not Temple, don’t you? Reformed Jews say TEMPLE.” He possessed a strong sense of justice and just a few tools to reconcile the inconsistencies. No matter. He gave many issues thought that most wouldn’t have paused to consider.
I had also defended George when the same person angrily shouted at him “to turn his hearing aid up or get another one.” I thought that was quite insulting. Everyone knows George can’t hear, except when he wants to hear, and even then its not so good.
So George and the guy had a run in when I wasn’t around. I just like being there so I can tell what is real and what is George. You never knew from him what he was embellishing or what he was actually registering. And who knows how much scripture influenced his imagination?
Anyway, George called. Damn, he called three or four times a day. Bing. Bing Bing. His ring clanged like a triangle.
“Our friend, xxxx (he never said the guy’s name the same way twice), came up to me and said he had taken pictures of the cemetary from a helicopter. He says he’s in charge and he says he is clever. ‘I’m clever’, he says. I must not be clever. I never thought of that. He wants roads in the cemetery. Streets in the cemetery. He wants a fountain in the cemetery. He’s clever. I’m not clever. Where does he think this cemetery is, New York City?” He must have told the story once or twice a day for a week, expressing humor and just a tinge of outrage.
Just a few days ago, George was bemoaning the fact that he didn’t hear well. “Just think how clever I would have been if I could hear,” George said. As for Me, George, I think you were plenty clever. And I am very happy to have known you, even if it wasn’t for the obligatory number of years one has to live in Vermont or know someone in order to call them your friend.
George was a kindred spirit. He was a giver. He always came to my aid and everyones aid. He never asked for anything in return. He did cherished friendships. He was a wealth of Jewish knowledge and history. I will never forget George. I will miss him dearly.
Al
Hey thanks for this great info. I didn’t know you can do that with body paint.
Thanks much for this approach really good page; this is the sort of aspect that maintains me though out the day.We’ve always heard been hunting close to for your web page soon after I seen about them from a companion and was happy when I was able to come across it soon after seeking for some time. Becoming a passionate blogger, I’m thrilled to find out other folks taking project and instrumental to the community. I just needed to comment to exhibit my admiration on your post as it is extremely pushing, and lots of freelancers tend not to get the credit they should have. I am positive I’ll be back and will send out some of my friends.
thanks !! very helpful post!