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Edited on Tue Nov-14-06 09:59 PM by pinto
I met Greg by a fortunate happenstance, and have never known such a real, present and loving human, before or since. *He saw the jokes*. Loved football, old ladies, books and me. I have never been so lucky in my life.
A skinny, stubborn Irishman, from Pennsylvania coal miner stock, he had a knack for listening well, perseverance and the cutting remark. (He also had schizophrenia and saw the world a little differently than I.)
He'd call me on my shit, but with no strings attached. Coming home (full of myself) he would announce my entrance with that song they play for the President. And laugh with such love and understanding of my foolishness, that it melted my heart. I'd look in his eyes and see such blanket acceptance of it all that it was stunning.
We'd hold each other and spin, just to spin.
He was also fearless - fearless - in his sense of right and wrong. We were picking up a ping pong table, of all things, the night the first Gulf War started. They had the "bombing" announcement on the store intercom and he was furious. He held Kuwait and Bush responsible because the Kuwaitis were slant drilling into Iraqi territory and Bush refused to call the foul.
He never, to my knowledge, bought one item made in China. I could, no big deal, but he had drawn a line in the sand for himself. Tibet was the issue.
Same with our circle of friends. He knew exactly where he stood in his own heart and followed it relentlessly. He and my sister, as well as my brother in law, had a relationship that didn't always include me. I grew to know my best friend through her friendship with Greg.
His gift was sincerely personal.
He wrote computer logic programs for a company to track material through their warehouses. Precise and incomprehensible to me.
A fine artist, a fine pen and ink craftsman. A stained glass guy.
And so goddamn real. Even if he apparently went from A to S, to B, Z and E, while I went A, B, C, D, E.... (Ha!)
Once, after he had gotten sick and insisted on still doing the shopping, he was really late. I got worried, went looking and met him at the bus stop talking about European history with a woman on the bench. It was all, all OK.
And, once, when I came home, beef stew was prepped along our butcher block table, potatoes, carrots, onions, celery, turnips 'n rutabagas (we were both from the East), cubed, quartered and arranged like a piece of stained glass art.
He was such a fine, fine guy.
The night he died, we had said all there seemed to say and sat watching the moon rise. Eating grape popsicles.
Y'know how they say someone comes for you when you die? A family member? A religious figure? Greg looked over his shoulder just before sun up and said he's here. I said who? He said, it's Luke Skywalker.
Go Greg!
He died a while a go, this month, but I still think of him often. And remember how lucky I was to be a part of his life. Thanks.
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