It Was the Oddest High School Reunion

By Susan Esther Barnes

It happened days ago, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It was the memorial celebration for Mark West, held at the Contra Costa Civic Theatre, where Mark participated in so many plays, and where he taught at the summer drama camp for kids for a decade or more. It was where I was the House Manager for a few years in the 80’s, and where the man who is now my husband ran the lighting booth.

Many of the people attending the memorial were people my husband and I had known in high school, although, for the most part, they were his friends more than mine. One of the first people who greeted me was Erika.

I remember Erika distinctly, partly because we played Dungeons and Dragons in the same group of people, but mostly because, in high school, I was jealous of her. She was younger than me, and blonder, and prettier, and many, many more boys wanted to date her than me.

I was quite surprised when the first thing Erika said to me was, “You look great. I wish I looked as good as you do.” When I was in high school, I would have killed to hear her say something like that. I would have told you it would never happen. And if you insisted that it would, I would have thought it would be cause for celebration. It wasn’t.

Despite the jealousy, I never disliked Erika. I could totally see what the boys saw in her. Not only was she pretty, she was a fun person. There was something inherently likeable in her that I can’t quite define. Who wouldn’t want to date her?

I don’t know what she looks like in her own eyes, but all of us have aged. None of us look like we did back then. Most of us have changed in other ways, too. But one thing she still has, and which is obvious right from the start, is her likeability. I am at a place in my life when I consider that to be much more important than whether we’ve picked up a few wrinkles or who has more grey hair.

I am no longer jealous of Erika. I am not jealous of Gretchen, or Rosalind, or any of the other people who were and/or are cuter than me, or have better legs, or blonder hair. I’m not jealous because I respect me for who I am, and I respect them for who they are. We are all attractive and powerful women in our own way.

The memorial itself was supposed to be a celebration, and it mostly consisted of stories about Mark. We heard about how he rushed to help when he thought a couple of kids were bullying another, how he challenged and inspired kids at drama camp, and how he treated his nieces and nephews to Slurpees and Top Dogs.

We saw clips from some of the plays he performed in, photos of him as he grew up, and a couple of clips of him that were used in a “Stand Up to Cancer” telethon in 2008.

We laughed a lot, we cried, and we cheered.

Afterward, we went to the Mallard Club, a place where Mark used to go to drink and to play dice and pool. It was the same place where, at his brother’s birthday party a number of years ago, we first learned Mark had cancer.

We told more stories about Mark, we toasted him countless times, and in between we caught up on each other’s lives.

It was the oddest high school reunion ever, and I think Mark would have approved.

Life is Fragile

By Susan Esther Barnes

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon at the memorial service of a man who died suddenly, and too young. Parents should not have to bury their children in any case, but a week ago this man, his parents, his wife, and his young daughter all thought he was fine, and now he's dead.

In a remarkable service, with over 800 people in attendance, we learned that although he technically was survived by only a couple of siblings, an astonishing number of men considered this man to be their brother.

From the boy he met in grade school by throwing rocks at him, to his brothers-in-law, to his work colleague, we heard story after story of his sense of humor, his kindness, his generosity, his gift of expressing interest in people and making them feel at ease.

But one day last week he realized something was wrong, and he went to the hospital, and within days he was gone. And in his final act of generosity, he donated his organs, giving life to others who will now be able to go on to leave their hospital beds, and hug their families, as he will not.

I was grateful to the rabbi for saying he does not believe the death of this man was God's will, but that it was an accident of nature. He said God did not will it that this man's daughter should grow up without her father or that the rest of his family and dear friends should lose him so soon.

It serves as a reminder to us all: Life is fragile. Be thankful for today. We never know what tomorrow may bring.

Last Night on Shabbat

By Susan Esther Barnes

Usually, as soon as Friday night services start, Jose clears away the trays, cups, and other items from the pre-oneg. But last night more people came than we expected, and with extra chairs to set up, and prayer books to find and hand out, and dinner to get ready next door, it didn’t happen.

By the time I noticed the leftovers were still out, the service was half over. I began to clear away the plates, but as I went back for a second load I realized that despite the fact it is early February, with so many people packed into the synagogue, it was too hot and stuffy inside. In ones and twos, people were getting up and helping themselves to the water that was still left out. I thought to myself, “Oh, that must be why none of us thought to clean that up earlier; people need it now.” It felt like it was no coincidence.

Then I began to wonder whether there was enough water left, so I walked over to check. Standing there was a woman who had lost her father last week. “I can’t be in there right now,” she said, motioning toward the sanctuary, “I don’t feel part of the joyous mood.” We talked a bit about how, since she had been sitting shiva, this was the first time she had been past her own driveway this week, and about how when someone close to you dies it seems that your world stops but somehow the rest of the world keeps going, and it’s hard to get back in synch with everyone else.

I asked her whether she was planning to go to the dinner after services. She said no. Instead, she planned to gather her family around her, and read aloud to them from the condolence notes and cards she had received over the past week. She explained that her family had seen who had come to pray with them as they sat shiva, and she wanted them to understand that support comes in other ways as well. It felt right.

While I was helping to clean up after dinner, I happened to stop to chat with a woman and her family. I had never met these people before. It turns out the woman was visiting from Maryland, and was going to have surgery here soon. I asked her daughter-in-law whether she had notified the synagogue about it. She said no, because “she’s just visiting.” I told her, “Perhaps, but you’re related. And you’re not just visiting.” She gave me permission to let the synagogue know, and she looked grateful that someone would think of doing that. It felt like my stopping to chat with that particular family was no coincidence.

After dinner, I went to Shabbat Unplugged, where a group of us sang with Dan Nichols. At one point, he revealed that two weeks earlier he had sung at a memorial service for a 17-year-old boy who had died. He said after the service the boy’s mother told him the service was both beautiful and horrible, and he was trying to figure out how to process that. After we sang a bit more, he told us that singing with us was helping him to heal. It felt right; it was a holy moment.

On the way home, I thought about a man I know named Angel who often says he believes the universe is unfolding the way it’s supposed to. I certainly felt that way last night. Not that it’s a surprise. It was, after all, Shabbat.