The Cheap Seats

A good friend died last Thursday, a profound shock. The days since then have been just that, a daze , filled mostly with thoughts of his absence. If I were a younger man, I doubt I'd be ruminating on the nature of death and loss as much, just one of the many prices we pay for growing older, I suppose. And like so many of life's unplanned moments, death seems to be one of those things that come at us in waves, with long intervals in between where these stinging waters recede and leave us in peace. Of course, these interludes shrink as we get older, perhaps nature's way of steeling us for the coming years that are more filled with sorrow than we could have realistically borne in the sunnier days of our youth. He was a good man, my friend. Unfailingly generous, quick with a joke and imbued with an unwaveringly positive spirit, he was a tonic to every person who knew him. And now that he is suddenly gone (and far too soon), those he left behind—his family, the love of his life,

I feel very fortunate that there were a number of teachers I had during my childhood who made a real difference in my young life. Naturally, they probably never knew this, as the lessons they passed on were only recognizable with the passing of many years. One of those teachers was William Meisner, who passed away last week at the grand old age of 94. Mr. Meisner taught English in his 30+ years at Carlton High School, though I dare say  Shakespeare  was probably his favorite. I had the good luck to be in the last Shakespeare class Mr. Meisner ever taught in the Spring of 1984, his final year at CHS. He was unforgettable. Even now I can see him at his desk reading one of the parts from any number of plays, his hands gesturing, his chin jutting out, his words transformed by the characters he portrayed. In a bold move on my part, I tracked Mr. Meisner down to a Cloquet nursing home two summers ago because  I wanted to give him a copy of the book I wrote, Addie Braver . In that story, Mr.

*Fair warning...this is not for the squeamish or faint of heart, but it is an entirely TRUE STORY. At the very least, you will be disgusted. Your nose and upper lip will scrunch together involuntarily, trust me. Okay, now that I have your attention, let us begin. I've used a good deal of headspace in the last ten months trying to put my finger on just the right metaphor to summarize the year that we all just crawled through. A ship and an iceberg came to mind, but was quickly rejected as being too obvious. The relationship between science and masks seemed appropriate, but was also discarded because it was (sadly) not obvious enough.  So, as this year of misery mercilessly churned towards its ending, I gave up my search. The blogosphere would have to do without the musings of one more middle-aged blowhard. I know...tragic, right? And then, in two parts, it happened. For Part 1, let's rewind a few months back to late September. A good friend and I (masked and distanced, so save y