My post about Fred has been a long time coming--I've formulated several versions in my head over the last few weeks--but grief, I've learned, is truly a
process, and I guess I needed to come out the other side before I could commit my feelings here. Of course, doing so now is yet another part of my grieving process, so please bear with me if I wax overly poetic...
Fred Jones was an accomblished and beloved teacher, musician, scholar and so much more to so many people. I was fortunate enough to meet him when I was 11 years old. (read: young, impressionable, awkward, lacking confidence and direction). After my parents, he was the single strongest influence on my development as human being. He taught me to sing, understand, and truly appreciate choral music in the Anglican tradition. He also taught me about architecture, archaeology, spirituality, religious history and traditions, music theory, british history, and more. He taught me the value and true power of committment, hard work, love, patience, respect, integrity, knowledge and understanding. He provided a model example of how to live a worthy life.
I wrote him a letter for his 25th anniversary/retirement from St. John's and when I found a copy of it a few days after he died, I was deeply relieved to be reminded that I had actually put my feelings for him into words and that he had read and understood them fully. I am comforted by the thought that he knew I loved him and how much, even though we didn't talk about it much. I regret that we hadn't really talked recently. I wish I had had the chance to tell him about my new-found running hobby, which is really the latest stage of my development into a stronger, more passionate human being with a slightly better understanding of her place in the world. I have been thinking of him often while I run, and hope that he will check in every now and then to watch my progress.
I have all sorts of imaginings about where he is now and what he might be doing in his personal Valhalla. Pubs are involved, and a guided tour through ancient times to answer at long last the mysteries of the ancient Celts (by this time, he's the one giving the tours saying "it's just a short walk to Silbury Hill where..."). I also imagine him shaking hands with my high school English teacher, Nancy Gilles, who will say something dry and sarcastic about how much cancer stinks, and at least he didn't have to go through the long battle she did, and "Really? They haven't beaten that #*$%#* yet?!?"
Fred leaves a legacy of former Bapst students and former choristers and, of course, the choir itself. Last Saturday, St. John's was overflowing with people and their love for Fred, for learning and for making music. The choir was packed like sardines with an extra person in every row and two-apiece on the alter rail cushions. Rehearsal the Thursday prior was also well-attended and despite the circumstances there was such a feeling of comeraderie and mutual affection that for a few moments it felt like "the old days" when the choir was in its hay-day and we all worked hard, but the music just flowed.... I took a certain pride in representing the continuum of Fred's 30 years at St. John's: there were two of us singing up there of the five original girls choir members. It was really good to reconnect with Amy and so many others.
The week between Fred's death and his memorial service was a truly bizarre experience for me. The telephone grapevine spread the news on Saturday night. On Sunday, a brief service was held in the chapel for choir members before we warmed up to sing the regular 10am service. It was heart-wrenching and re-opened the flood-gate of tears but did help us all pull it together a bit to do the work we needed to do. We sang Call to Remembrance as an introit before processing and I felt better having offered that up to him. The rest of the service contained music that was largely--blissfully--free of Fred connotations. Throughout the rest of the week, I spent more time on Facebook than ever before (which isn't saying much because I rarely get on fb). Several groups had popped up where people shared (originally) ideas to help Fred and his family, and (later) memories and notes of sympathy. I created an event to invite former choristers to come sing with us and share logistical info. The most amazing thing about reading all these comments and replies was the list of reasons why people could not attend: new-born twins, a baby on the way, great distances such as Honolulu, West Africa, London, California, and jobs that could not be walked away from easily. And many people came despite these things. All this was truly a testament to Fred's far-reaching influence and the deep impressions he made on so many. I'm calling the communications of that week "e-grieving" and they were strangely personal, frank and heartfelt, considering the media.
The memorial service was difficult, but it was also beautiful and I felt proud of how we honored Fred. The program was filled with perfect quotes and readings and I will write more about those when I remember to bring the booklet home from my cubby at church. I definitely need to read up on Fred's favorite authors, and also on Fred himself. His book arrived in the mail last Friday and I've only browsed it thus far. During the service I felt like I was re-experiencing my whole life in waves: I was a child singing with my childhood friends, I was a young woman being married in the church, and I was a mother comforting her children.
There are so many more things that I've been feeling and thinking and just don't have the energy to write about just now. It's been draining these last few weeks. Meanwhile, here are links to
the obituary, and a
beautiful article in the BDN that Meg Haslett interviewed me for (or was that a therapy session?).
