I've been wanting to say something here about Howard, whom I surely did love as a wonderful friend. But each new posting to come along, Arne's several items especially, with their unbearable poignance, has crumpled me yet again.
I have a morbid dread of forgetting. All my life -- a long time -- I've cataloged the people, the events, the joys. As I put it to a friend the other day, celebrating the joys gets us through the difficult times we all must have.
Prompted by notes today from Mike Thomas and Richard Aceves, I'm reminded that Howard was always a vital example to us all of how to live. I learned so much about that joy from knowing him. I've cribbed from my response to them some further comments that may serve as my expression of gratitude.
I have this calendar daemon. Today it reminds me that it's three years tomorrow that my mom died. In a few weeks it will remind me about Rob Bernardo. In a year it will remind me about Howard.
Arne's announcement itself just left me numb and unable to feel much of anything. But there was, at that first hoisting of good Merlot Friday night, a catch in my throat as my feelings ambushed me with a sudden Niagra.
I've wanted to post something about my first ride in the truck, over the San Gabriels to Littlerock, alternating Monteverdi, some hot Latin crooner, and cowboy songs at a completely deafening level as the wild-ass driver careened around the turns on the back roads ("But you have to see this!"). That was the day I first met Howard, and Kevin too, and Ken as well, and I met Arne two days after.
I'm not a city boy, and I loved the place in Littlerock. Howard was planting all this stuff, yet the drive to LAX to get me and to bring me over the mountains as though the whole reason for his existence was to show it to me had so exhausted him he spent the next day in bed.
Now about all I think of is those trees he planted, he and Kevin and
Ken and even me, which I want to see bear fruit. When they do, I
wish I could be there to sing an ancient Native American song at
dawn and hoist yet another glass of fine red at sunset, enjoying
again the blossoming that was always Howard.
