My Sunday Feeling

David wasn’t a friend exactly.  He was more of an associate.  We practiced law together briefly when I was a young Legal Services lawyer in LIttle Rock.  I went to work for the Government and I guess he did too as he took a job as an Administrative Law Judge for the Social Security Administration out in California.  

I kept up with him through mutual friends.  He eventually transferred back to Little Rock.  I would see him now and again in the Federal Building or out to lunch.  He was always cordial and we would chit chat and catch up on old news.  He had to take a medical retirement after developing some sort of virulent blood cancer (as I understood it).  We both got our hair cut at the same place and so I would see him there from time to time.  And up until last Fall he volunteered at the VA Legal Clinic.  

David lost his battle in March.  His memorial service was today.  Normally I would have been in attendance.  This is not a normal time. I’m pushing 65 and I have chronic upper respiratory issues.  And we have a pestilence upon the land.  One that could, statistically speaking, kill me if I contracted it.  

Now I like to think that I am a young 64.  I exercise regularly.  Have good energy and a lot of interests that keep me busy.  And I like to think that these interests keep me sharp mentally. I memorized the words “Person, woman, man, camera, TV” and I typed them right now in real time.  Give me access to the nuclear codes.

No, I can’t say that David and I were close.  But I admired him very much and he was a part of my life for 30 years or so.  “Attention must be paid,” as Mrs. Loman says at the end of the play.  30 years and now he’s lost and gone forever.   

The cops refer to it as “risk calculation.” It is one of the many cruelties of this viral age that we are required-or some of us are- to perform one before we take part in public activities that we once took for granted.  Like going to a memorial service. 

So I did the risk calculation and decided that my relationship with David-as warm and friendly as it was over all of these years-was not worth the risk of being with a group of people in a funeral home chapel given my age and medical status.  That and I don’t live by myself anymore.  

And that’s a hell of a thing if you think about it.  The virus has robbed us of some of the social rituals we, particularly we in the south, cherish.  Going to church.  Singing in the choir. Having folks over for supper or to watch the game.  Riding in the golf cart with a buddy.  Visiting the elderly, especially at an old folk’s home.  Shooting the bull with a teller at the bank.  Meeting for drinks.

And going to pay one’s respects at a memorial service.  

Sure David would have understood.  He would have told me to stay home.  

But still it’s a hell of a thing.  Knowing somebody that long would have meant something 6 months ago.  

It would have meant that attention could have been paid without worrying if I were bringing something evil and deadly back home with me.  It would have meant that I didn’t have to do a risk calculation before doing my Christian duty.  

It would have meant that things were normal.