Why so few pictures of you among my collection, Danny? Because you always took them. But I have so many memories, my heart snapshots over 38 years. First from our days at Berea College. You jingled your Morris bells with the Country Dancers; loved on the old ladies at Food Service when you were supposed to be serving vegetables; swooped down from the stands like a medieval knight to rescue Teresa from the gym floor when she fell while cheerleading; took on the role of mattress salesman in the play I directed. Through Emily Ann Smith, we delved into Shakespeare and the Greeks. We learned first at her feet. Through Margaret Allen, you discovered “Carmina Burana.” Years later, you would still sweep your arm in the giant circle of life to “O Fortuna.”
Then came the masters program. First night in lit crit class you shared you were related to the original Siamese twins by marriage. It was relevant to the point at hand, now long forgotten. We plowed through the reading and writing, created parodies to survive—“Out of the Classroom Endlessly Reeling” (sorry, Mr. Whitman); danced to disco and arced backward under a limbo broomstick with our professors—only first names at the parties, we dictated, no Dr. This and Dr. That.
Then a Ph.D. for you; law school for me. You and Darrell saw me through the bar exam with a joke-a-day, through the mail, through the phone. You found my first home when I moved here. We painted, remodeled, and cleaned—your homes; my homes—(I still insist Comet is not meant for scrubbing telephones); cut Christmas trees, drank Long Island iced teas, played Trivial Pursuit and charades; watched cult movies; sang Emily Dickenson’s poems to the tune of “Hernando’s Hideaway”; danced and danced til the wee hours to Grace Jones’ “Saved.”
Our families shared the years, too, with visits, weddings, birthdays, performances, births, graduations, you name it—you cut my sister’s grass an hour before her outdoor wedding. We loved our many cats (yours) and dogs (mine). I called you when my big Ben died. You dug up the cold earth so I could bury him in my yard. We buried our parents in different ways, first your dad, then mine. My mom called you to come and break the news to me. Then my mom left us. Last, your beloved mother, who married at 14 and had you at 15, birthed you in her mother-in-law’s mountain home.
Oh, we had some grand talks, Danny. History, family, politics, art, pedagogy, the meaning of life, silly stuff. I still don’t get why the “Cool Whip” line was so funny to you. But in 38 years, we never ran out of things to talk about. Or do. Here, or beyond Cincinnati—Pine Mountain to see the comet; the Renaissance Festival; flea markets; Red River Gorge; Stratford, Ontario (Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, and us—all there to watch Christopher Plummer define Lear); and of course North Carolina where we canoed in water so shallow we had to get out and walk—past your mother’s house, Jim’s place, Mother Jones’s house, Tobe’s place. A lot of family, all right there. Their love for you was always palpable, Danny, you, so very special; them, so very proud. The Smartest Man in Ashe County, North Carolina, they called you, and we all laughed together.
I will miss you so much. Your wearing black socks with sandals and shorts. Your laugh. Your bringing Annie the perfect 90th birthday gift, a photo of the ship that carried her family across the Atlantic. Your face, always, at my performances, at anything important in my life, really. Your spur-of-the-moment weeding of my flower beds as you came to dinner. Your delight in your colleagues and students. Your beeline to the oldest member of any group, so you could learn about him or her—and find out how you were related.
Last Tuesday evening, that historic Election Day, we talked after Barack Obama’s acceptance speech. We cried, with pride and joy for what this nation had accomplished, with hope that we felt for the future. “I love you,” one of us said. I don’t remember who went first. “I love you, too,” the other responded, before we hung up.
This spring, I will hike up the mountain with your family and friends, past the falling-down cabin of your great-grandparents to the awe-inspiring vista from atop the Johnisee Rock. We will take your corporal remains back to the mountains, Danny, but I will always carry you in my heart.