At a memorial service for my cousin Bob Sutcliffe in Pentwater, Michigan, last month, the gathered family and friends were asked to say something about him. Just a few words.
One by one, Bob’s siblings, nephews, nieces and friends rose to the occasion and spoke up.
Soon it would be my turn and I wondered, how to describe Bobby? This moment cried out for thoughtful words that could evoke — capture, define — my cousin. But what were those words? Who was Bobby anyway?
We Humans Are Ineffable
Bobby was very real to me. I’d known him all my life. He was a few months younger than my older brother. Our mothers were sisters. He was there in the Michigan woods near Pentwater every summer when my own family made its months-long pilgrimage to our cottage on a lake.
In my mind I could see Bobby’s face, square-jawed, and hear his voice with its Michigan twang. I could tell stories about Bob, but I couldn’t put Bobby — the real, felt Bobby — into words.
When it came my turn to speak, I muttered something that said more about my affection for Bobby than about who my cousin was. There was no describing him. There were no words. It couldn’t be done. Bobby, the person, was ineffable.
People are a little like God. They are right there next to you. You know who they are. But that who can’t be captured or summed up. We humans are ineffable.
‘Who Was Jon, Anyway?’
Back in August, 2022, I participated in the Community of Writers workshop, which takes place every summer up in the Sierra at the ski lodge where the 1960 winter Olympics were held. I submitted to the group some of the posts I had put up on this website during the days and months following my husband’s death in 2021.
My writer colleagues liked what I had written well enough, but they wanted more. They wanted me to write about Jon. Who was Jon, they wanted to know. Tell us who he was.
That I can’t tell you.
Jon had blue eyes, full lips, a smattering of blond hair. He had a lovely tenor singing voice. He loved chess, the Giants, cats. He loved children — anybody’s children, not just his own. If we entered a room full of people that included a kid or two, it was the children Jon headed for.
All this is true. These things are true about Jon. But they are not Jon. They are descriptions, not of Jon, but of what Jon, the ineffable, was known to do.
I came across an obituary in the San Francisco Chronicle the other day for Marian Zailian, a woman I knew and very much enjoyed when we were both on the staff at the Chronicle. I wanted to write a note to the family saying what Marian had meant to me.
What did she mean to me? She was not a close friend, but she was a person I had shared time on the planet with. She meant something to me, but she was as indescribable as my husband Jon and my cousin Bobby.
Eat, Drink and Tell Stories
Jon’s family has a tradition of gathering together after a death to eat some food, drink some wine and tell stories about the deceased. Poignant stories are good on these occasions. Funny stories are even better. A gentle roasting of the dead is not against the rules.
One by one people get up and tell a story about the departed. They know better than to try to capture the ineffable, so they talk around it, with stories.
The lost person does not come alive at these events. But something else does. And for that, once again, I’ve got no words.
More big thoughts at “My Old Stuff — A Little Moldy, a Little Dusty. But Unlike Certain People, It’s Still With Me.” Also, “In Judge Harbin-Forte’s Courtroom — Where Jury Duty Is an Exercise in Mindfulness.”
So true! Had not thought about how you truly comment about a deceased family member or close friend.
Yes. I think it’s truly difficult to say something when a friend has lost a loved one. My favorite responses have been the ones where people have been able to tell a story about Jon, especially if it’s some detail I wasn’t aware of.
Two weeks ago my family gave “An Honoring” for my deceased, of two years, husband. Besides writing as best I could about who he was, I invoked poems, songs, and his writing in trying to capture the spirit and the breadth of this man of whom it was my wonderful fortune to have partnered for 42 years. In composing what I would say, my clear goal was to give a rendering of the many facets of this aspiring and inspiring individual. Only at the end did I refer to my feelings of deep and continual loss. I was proud that my children also strove to fill out a picture of their father in their speeches.
(This “Honoring” was embarked upon at my children’s urging as I was never going to be ready for it. And it did leave me with sharpened pain and an awareness that no matter the quality and number of life supporting and happy scenarios – grandchildren’s lives, artistic endeavors, gardening, etc. – I give myself to , privately I live in a prison of loneliness. I suspect you, as do my widow friends who had the gift of a loving husband for many years, understand the feeling, Barbara. It is loneliness for one specific person.)
So interesting that it took your children’s urging to make the Honoring happen. During covid, we had a small graveside interment ceremony for Jon followed by a small reception, which out of necessity I organized myself. In the back of my mind I’ve thought that, post-covid, we would have a bigger event for Jon. He finished a thriller novel just before he died. Now I’m thinking a big, fun book launch for all his friends would be a great way to go.
Kathleen, thank you for these words; they say it all: ” . . . loneliness for one specific person.”
Barbie you always capture an elusive wisp in the air and illuminate it.
Thank you, Sharie. Yes, this thought was elusive.