Our friend Herb had a soft, deep voice and a deadpan delivery
that made him seem perpetually glum.
When our efforts to rescue the historic State Fair Carousel
hit the media 23 years ago, he was among the first to call. We weren’t sure
what to make of him, but he became a hard-working volunteer and fiercely loyal
board member during some unexpected struggles. He also became a friend.
One hot July day in 1990, Herb introduced us to his twin
passions: eight or ten vintage Cadillacs and a roomful of jukeboxes. There was real
joy in his eyes as he powered up the music, and from then on we knew him as a
romantic at heart. We weren't too surprised when, four years ago, he married a second time, to a woman from his high school graduating class.
A year later Herb tripped and fell, and his leg
shattered. His doctor never questioned why the injury was so severe. When it
didn’t heal, Herb sought a second opinion and learned that he had sarcoma, a
devilishly aggressive cancer. With chemo and radiation he managed to live three
years, instead of the six months he’d been told to expect.
Yesterday Herb was buried. The parking lot was full of old
Caddies as his car-club friends said goodbye. His daughter played haunting
English horn and violin solos. A carousel pin graced his lapel. Herb was a
traveling salesman, a humble man, a sometime curmudgeon, a valued friend, and a
dedicated volunteer who found satisfaction in service to the carousel and his
automobile clubs. He will be missed.
My September began with melancholy thoughts of my late
parents, and in mid-month I was mindful of the loss of my brother five years
ago. As we attended services for Herb on the last day of the month, it dawned
on me that I’ve reached an age where funerals and loss are no longer rare. But
if Anyone is listening, I’ve had quite enough for now, thank you.
