My Best Friend’s Funeral

A Personal Reflection

September 1968. The night before our first day of school, junior year. I’d been driving around with Joe LaGreca, a friend with a car. We stopped at Frank Capelli’s to laugh and chat and shoot the bull. My last words to Frank, my best friend in the world at that time, were, “See you tomorrow.” He rode off on his bike, we drove off in the car.

The day of the funeral, for which six of his friends had been selected as pall bearers, my mom (bless her heart) said, “Don’t be afraid to cry.” I was too numb inside to hear this sage advice. It was a hard reality we were all dealing with. It wasn’t till 1991, 23 years later, I woke one morning and bawled like a baby. It felt so good to finally get it out.

The trigger event was a boy on a bicycle at dusk the evening beforehand.

That was how Frank had been killed in 1968, hit by a motorist while on his bicycle, 20 minutes after I’d been with him looking forward to the new school year. He’d been with Ian Crosley and Randy Freytag. The three were riding the bikes through an unlit stretch of road to the next neighborhood, and evidently Frank was too far out in the road. The horror of that scene, not only for Randy and Ian but also for the driver, must have been unspeakable as the car came up over a small rise and mauled him with the grill.

The next morning it seemed strange to not see Frank at the start of the day. The strangeness continued through several hours where our shared classes found him absent. At some point I began to hear the rumors that he’d been struck, but no one knew any details. Throughout the afternoon my fears increased and when the school bus dropped me off at school day’s end I bolted home with one aim, to call the hospital.

This was a very difficult moment. I asked if Frank were there, and she said no. I was incredibly relieved and asked when he’d been released. The nurse knew the truth, but was not permitted to tell me. An awkward moment fell over us and then she said, very solemnly, to call the family.

I called the Capellis and when the phone was lifted from the receiver all I could hear was wailing. Whether it was Nancy or her mother I do not know, because both were in a swoon of incomparable anguish. Through incoherent sobs I understood that I should call back later, a gesture that let me know I was still a friend of the family. And why the hospital could not tell me anything more than that "he was not there."

The day of the funeral we were dressed in suits, the six of us, my first time in a Catholic church. The sanctuary was filled, a very large contingent on hand, one of the largest funeral gatherings I have attended from that day to this. Who were all these people? The priest came down the aisle with incense, dressed in vestments like I’d never seen before. We knelt, sat, knelt again… I followed in unison as the others did… all meaningless for me, and I an empty shell. I remember not a word.

Next, we were in a large black limousine, following a train of vehicles to the grave site. It seemed forever and when we arrived the solemn contingent was waiting for us because our vehicle was a little too far from the front. We were hastened to the hearse to lift the casket and place it in the grave.

Like a series of scenes in a strange film or a dream, the next was at a Howard Johnsons. Several adult men in suits ushered us to an ice cream counter. Evidently they sought to soothe us through this kindness because they knew we loved him. They bought us ice cream cones. We sat and ate in silence. No one knew what to say. It was a very strange moment, and the strongest memory I have from my best friend’s funeral.

How Inconvenienced Are You Willing To Be?

If you've been following the news coming in from Afghanistan/Pakistan, the U.S. and Pakistani armies have become pro-active in striving to root out the Taliban from this corner of the world. Like all military actions, there are consequences that are disruptive to the peoples in that region. In this instance, Pakstani security forces have taken action, and 2-3 million refugees have been displaced.

Numbers like these are hard to put your head around, but think about how you would provide water, food and shelter to everyone who lived in your own town if they were suddenly displaced. Duluth has about 80,000 seated at the edge of the world's largest freshwater lake, and I still can't imagine what we would do. Now multiply that number by 300 and place them on the sides of a mountain. Where do you get port-a-potties for 2.5 million people?

One articles relates that Russia has now offered a million dollars in aid. The U.S. has promised 200 million, another story states. To put these numbers in perspective, the new Yankee Stadium was one billion dollars.

Throw in a few suicide bombers doing their "random-acts-of-violence" schtick, and you have a pretty distressing or tiresome situation.

It is in the midst of crises like these that one sees what people are made of. What's interesting is that most of these people are not in government run refugee camps. According to a Christian Science Monitor story this week, "Instead, they're being cared for by private groups and individuals. According to estimates by aid groups and other non-governmental organizations, of the 2.5 million people uprooted, only some 200,000 are living in the dozen or so camps set up by the government with the help of the United Nations. The bulk of IDPs are living in government schools and hujras (community guest houses) or with friends and relatives.

"In Swabi and Mardan districts, many residents have opened their own homes to the refugees. One wealthy family in Swabi is sheltering and feeding some 17,000 IDPs from Swat and Buner in seven private camps."

Personally, I don't mind having company, but it does inconvenience one a little during the stay. In fact, it pretty much interferes with all your routines. So you just have to wonder what it would be like to have 17,000 guests? Maybe we can do a re-write of Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?

I can picture the conversation. "Hi hon, got a minute? .... Well, I was going to bring a few homeless people over tonight.... Yes, I know it's book club night. No prob, you still can go. I'll take care of the details.... No, I'm not that concerned about clean sheets at the moment... How many? Well, it's just temporary.... uhm, 17,000.... No, we don't have a faulty connection. That's, yes, uhmm 17,000, give or take a hundred or so."

There's a darker side to the events unfolding in Pakistan at this moment some of which you can read here, but for now I'm going to try to keep on the sunny side.

The Human Cost of Madoff Investment Scandal

When the story broke last week, one could sense it would have far reaching consequences, perhaps on the scale of a Jonestown or major earthquake in terms of subsequent suffering. The former head of the Nasdaq Stock Exchange had allegedly built a Ponzi-style scheme into a fifty billion dollar black hole of other peoples’ money.

Many images come to mind when I read of this seventy year old scammer with so much credibility that he could lead armies of people to part with their hard earned cash. I mean, this Bernard Madoff was a respected man in the New York financial scene. He was trusted and looked up to.

Next I read this story of the fund manager who slit his wrists after losing more than a billion dollars of his clients’ money. Then I understood something. Madoff did not have to meet the eyeballs of the very human faces whose hearts would be crushed by this shameful crime. It would be the investment brokers and fund managers who took it on the chin. Those who still had a conscience, like Rene-Thierry Magon de la Villehuchet, suffered pain and humiliation. In his shame, as a result of failing to protect the best interests of those who trusted him, he took his life.

Investor who lost big to Madoff kills himself
Tuesday December 23, 8:45 pm ET
By Adam Goldman and Tom Hays, Associated Press Writers

Investor who lost more than $1 billion of client money in Madoff scandal commits suicide
NEW YORK (AP) -- A fund manager who lost more than $1 billion of his clients' money to Bernard Madoff was discovered dead Tuesday after committing suicide at his Manhattan office, marking a grim turn in a scandal that has left investors around the world in financial ruin.

Yesterday I spoke on the phone with a New York publisher who had aunts and uncles who were among those fleeced masses. She said they were devastated. They lost their life savings and it triggered a memory from my own family's history.

My grandmother grew up in West Virginia. Her father ran the hardware store in Cairo, a small rural town east of Parkersburg. At some point in her early teens, her father suffered losses in the business and the six children were separated to live with various cousins while he strove to get the family back on its feet. The splintered family was reunited in about a year, a considerable achievement requiring much labor and sacrifice.

After the kids were grown, and he had spent a lifetime saving for retirement, he was persuaded that rather than keeping his money in the bank he should invest it. The investment broker into whose hands he gave his life savings would take it to Philadelphia and the family would be secure for life on the yields or interest or whatever tale was told. I do not know those specific details. What I know is that the man never returned nor was ever heard from again.

When the truth dawned on him that he'd lost everything, Winfield Scott McGregor was devastated. It is said that till the day he died he was a hollowed out man who spent much of his time in a rocking chair on the porch, staring off into the distance. He never regained the spring in his step, never bounced back. He was a broken man.

The Madoff swindle might well be history's biggest, fifty billion dollars. A lot of those betrayed were common folk who trusted the investment community. Many will fight this in court, hoping to retain something of their dignity if not what is rightfully theirs. But many others will be broken, overcome with resignation, adrift on a roiling sea of sorrows. This is the human cost of the Madoff scandal.

Peace In Our Time?

I remember many years ago reading a detailed article by futurist Alvin Toffler about the future of war. (Wired magazine, I believe, in the early to mid nineties.) In the article he made a case for the decentralization of war into world hotspots. Instead of a global war involving all countries lining up in two groups like the Axis and Allies, there would be the kind of world we have come to see today, with military action in Afghanistan, Somalia, Bosnia, Iraq, etc.

No one has perfect prescience when it comes to things future. In 1963 Decca Records, for example, failed to sign up the Beatles because their internal futurist believed "the guitar is on the way out." In this instance, it appears that Mr. Toffler not only made a good case for his views, history seems to be confirming them. The Mumbai terror assault is only the latest episode in the string.

When events like Mumbai occur, there is no way to predict what will happen next. First, we do not even have all the facts. Who were these people who did this? What was their ultimate objective? Were there really only ten terrorists in this special op? India and Pakistan have been on the threshold of war for years. And the Israel component in this equation is a similar unknown quantity.

Yesterday I addressed the issue of torture. Noting that many reports on the web seemed from one source, I wasn't sure how far to go with regard to pushing this notion. Today, the Jerusalem Post had a story suggesting that the hostages may not have been tortured after all. They were simply so shot full of holes that doctors were appalled by the destruction of human life. Even this matter is as yet an uncertainty.

Some are concerned about Indo-Pakistan relations because the future between these armed powers is potentially nuclear. Both have nuclear weapons; Pakistan 60-80 missiles and India an arsenal of bombs. Re-arrange the word NUCLEAR and it spells UNCLEAR.

The following is an example of the unreliability of prognostication. This is from a blogsite called Understanding Each Other, Diversity & Dissent The writer is a Pakistani named Agha, identified here as pacocalvary.

Having said that I must add one incident that my father narrated when he visited West Germany in 1988. He asked the hosts, " Can the Germanies unite?" "Not in our lifetime," came the reply.... and it happened in 1991. So prophecy in history is not easy. Sometimes all that we assess proves wrong. So let's hope for the best. ~pavocalvary

If you are seriously interested in following the analysis of these troubling events, there are plenty of voices out there in blogs across the cyber-universe striving to help bring clarity. Here's an interesting one: In From the Cold. And here's another: Tikun Olam

And if your only serious interest is pie recipes, Google will help you find those as well.

Markings

"We cannot afford to forget any experience, not even the most painful." ~ Dag Hammarskjold

Hammarskjold was the first Secretary-General of the United Nations. His book, Markings, is a collection of notes, poems, philosophical musings, insights on life and the challenges of being human in the modern world.

I discovered Hammarskjold in June 1993. Of his book I wrote in my own journal, "an honest, deep 'picking at the scabs' trying to understand the mysteries of injury and healing, pain and meaning. And good writing, too." And later I referred to it as a "treasure chest filled with gold pieces."

Here are two more "gold pieces" for today from Hammarskjold:

"Never look down to test the ground before taking your next step: only he who keeps his eye fixed on the far horizon will find his right road."

"Never measure the height of a mountain, until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was."

Thank you Mr. Hammarskjold for your service to humanity and for having shared this book of deeply personal and profound insights.