Saturday's do for Fred
From: Gardner Selby [mailto:wgselby@statesman.com]
Sent: Tuesday, April 11, 2006 12:51
Pals:
Over morning caffeine, I intended to send post cards plus after Saturday's do for Fred, but this will have to sub in before the week slips away.
It was a bittersweet gathering that John & Company corraled, but I'm lingering on sweet: The shaded yard of all back yards. The watch-your-back-and-head tree swing. The tables of food, especially the green chili, smoked chicken and sticky chocolate cake. The Negra Modelo and Miller Lite, the semi-circles of rickety collapsible chairs, the redolent-of-cool breeze, the clinking of glass on glass, the thump of basketballs on driveway concrete and, of course, the obstinate (obstreperous?) microphone squeeching every few minutes like skeeters (or perhaps an editor) from another planet.
Probably no one among writers-in-attendance took a transcript of the Fred mems. But I've already told the Red Tomato table cloth story enough for it to stick to my bedraggled repertoire (who preserved that tale?) and even attempted Molly's recall of FB as The Houston Post's highest-ranking, just-look-at-his-appellido employee from Mexico (as always, though, missing her word play and timing, completely). [It has since occurred to me that if I meet my Truck-of-Mack, folks won't have Liberty Bar tales, though I give permission for someone to shake the door at Aranda's on South First past Oltorf and tell 'em I'll be late for breakfast; no one there will say I would have made a waiter.]
Simply put, it had to be John's duty and what-else-have-you pleasure to call the gathering. And for that he gets everything we give him, no? But there's a swig more that resonates outside the love and respect for one taken and forgive me if I preach: This is it--You and yours, me and you and the guy who kept his shades affixed even in the indoor bathroom, (now don't get squeamish), Saturday sunshines and rarely cool breezes, the scarce moments we get to share howdys and recollections before drive times and after disasters. This is it. I didn't know Fred well, but I'll guess he's nodding or at least raising an eye brow.
Even if you couldn't touch down Saturday, thank you for being part of it, remembering it, savoring it, protecting it, holding on to it. I don't know when I'll next pause to take note, but I bet you make it happen. [In olden days, I'll guess, it was easier for folks to remember it together, though I concede spending an eon since doubling as the father of human parrots who invariably intone: "Where are you?" And no, I do not reply that I am here, always have been here, right here, because that would only distress and you shouldn't do that with parrot daughters.]
Here's to more sweet than bitter. And John? Send the leftovers now.
Saludos,
g.
Sent: Tuesday, April 11, 2006 12:51
Pals:
Over morning caffeine, I intended to send post cards plus after Saturday's do for Fred, but this will have to sub in before the week slips away.
It was a bittersweet gathering that John & Company corraled, but I'm lingering on sweet: The shaded yard of all back yards. The watch-your-back-and-head tree swing. The tables of food, especially the green chili, smoked chicken and sticky chocolate cake. The Negra Modelo and Miller Lite, the semi-circles of rickety collapsible chairs, the redolent-of-cool breeze, the clinking of glass on glass, the thump of basketballs on driveway concrete and, of course, the obstinate (obstreperous?) microphone squeeching every few minutes like skeeters (or perhaps an editor) from another planet.
Probably no one among writers-in-attendance took a transcript of the Fred mems. But I've already told the Red Tomato table cloth story enough for it to stick to my bedraggled repertoire (who preserved that tale?) and even attempted Molly's recall of FB as The Houston Post's highest-ranking, just-look-at-his-appellido employee from Mexico (as always, though, missing her word play and timing, completely). [It has since occurred to me that if I meet my Truck-of-Mack, folks won't have Liberty Bar tales, though I give permission for someone to shake the door at Aranda's on South First past Oltorf and tell 'em I'll be late for breakfast; no one there will say I would have made a waiter.]
Simply put, it had to be John's duty and what-else-have-you pleasure to call the gathering. And for that he gets everything we give him, no? But there's a swig more that resonates outside the love and respect for one taken and forgive me if I preach: This is it--You and yours, me and you and the guy who kept his shades affixed even in the indoor bathroom, (now don't get squeamish), Saturday sunshines and rarely cool breezes, the scarce moments we get to share howdys and recollections before drive times and after disasters. This is it. I didn't know Fred well, but I'll guess he's nodding or at least raising an eye brow.
Even if you couldn't touch down Saturday, thank you for being part of it, remembering it, savoring it, protecting it, holding on to it. I don't know when I'll next pause to take note, but I bet you make it happen. [In olden days, I'll guess, it was easier for folks to remember it together, though I concede spending an eon since doubling as the father of human parrots who invariably intone: "Where are you?" And no, I do not reply that I am here, always have been here, right here, because that would only distress and you shouldn't do that with parrot daughters.]
Here's to more sweet than bitter. And John? Send the leftovers now.
Saludos,
g.
posted by Laura Weisman at 9:18 PM
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1 Comments:
so who was awarded Black Fred's green eyeshade?
m.g. in fla.
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