Good riddance, eh?
The Jerry Sandusky horrors alone would have been enough to make 2011 an annus horribilis, but for some of us, things have gotten even worse since the dreadful accusations of child molestation surfaced in November.
Last week, my College of Communications colleague Jeanne Hall died at 53. This was a caring, sweet-natured soul. Many of us knew she’d been going through a hard time; I don’t think I’m the only one who’s now beating himself up for not having been supportive enough. I can think of several occasions when I listened to voice mail messages from Jeanne, didn’t feel like calling back that very minute and then forgot to call back later — to my everlasting shame and remorse.
The day after Jeanne died, I walked to campus to fetch something or other. Jeanne’s office was two away from mine. I stood before her door for a moment, looking at the collage of movie posters and movie stars that she loved and studied, and letting the terrible finality of her death sink in. Never again would she walk through that door.
On the way home I ran into a friend on the street and told her I had just lost a dear colleague. So had she: Christopher Raines, a 29-year-old professor in the Department of Dairy and Animal Science, died in a car wreck at the beginning of the week.
The day after Christmas, the College of Communications received more sad news: Stratford “Strat” Smith, a professor of Telecommunications who occupied the office across the hall from me when I started teaching at Penn State in 1998, died at 95. Strat retired soon after I arrived, but I remember that whenever I stuck my head in his door to chat, he would say something wise or funny — or both.
Before closing out another year of column writing, I would like to honor a few other people whose lives and deaths touched me in ways large and small.
Belber Robinson, 1930-2011. During my brief stint as the features editor of the Centre Daily Times, I wrote a silly little story about flashy neckties, of which I am inordinately fond. As part of my research, I interviewed Mr. Robinson at Jack Harper’s, the clothing store on College Avenue. He recalled that in his student days at Bucknell, the guys wore ties and jackets to football games. “These days,” he told me, “even a conservative fella likes a little peppier tie.’ I described him in my story as a small, dapper man. He was also a sweetheart.
Bea Walden, 1927-2011. I don’t remember how I met Bea and Dan Walden, only that I took to them immediately because they reminded me so much of my parents. I once saw Bea perform at the Jewish Joke Festival at the Jewish Community Center. She brought down the house. She went on joking almost until the end, apparently. At her funeral, one of her children recalled visiting her at the nursing home and asking her if she was comfortable. “I make a living,” Bea said — a classic Jewish joke. My own mother’s death sank in at a deeper level that day.
Lee Cadoff, 1908-2011. Lee Cadoff was my father’s sister. I was surprised at his grief when she died this fall. “Dad,” I said, “she was 103!” Didn’t matter. She was the last of his siblings. Her death meant that he was now the only living member of his immediate family. When we visited Lee in the Bronx a few years ago, she was just as cheerful as I remembered her from when she would pinch my cheek by way of greeting when we arrived at her Co-op City apartment for Passover. Her matter-of-factness about losing her “faculties” was startling and oddly charming. “My memory,” she declared, “is just shot to pieces!”
Nettie Frank, 1922-2011. My mom. She died three months shy of her 70th wedding anniversary. Can you imagine what it’s like for my father to live without her after that many years? I can’t. At 93, he’s begun taking an exercise class and a computer class and has joined the welcoming committee at the independent living facility where he lives in Dallas. But he still says “we” and “us” and “our” rather than “I” and “me” and “my.” And when I visited him a couple of weeks ago, he pointed to a photo on the television cabinet. “My beautiful bride,” he said with a heavy sigh.
These December days are darker than usual. We’ve lit our lights and given our gifts. It isn’t enough. Just a couple of weeks ago I wrote in this space that the Sandusky scandal teaches us to speak out when we witness cruelty. Here’s a corollary: Be there when someone you know needs comfort or company.
And when we raise a glass to toast the new year tomorrow, we would do well to follow the custom of Henry Miller and his neighbors at Big Sur and say, “Here’s kindness!” What else matters?
