This Plant Makes Me Sad

Crepe Myrtle Makes Me Sad

This is a crepe myrtle bush, they bloom in early July and they foreshadow the anniversary of my father’s death.  And here it is:  7-27 (1991) when we lost Mortimer Personya Warren who went by “Pete,” but I called him “Day.”  He was tall, 6’4”, and slim, and handsome; he was unfailingly polite and kind, fun, classy, a real gentleman.  How fitting to be in Maine today.  Day was a Mainer through and through, a man of few words, a man who picked wild blueberries for a summer job, a man who wouldn’t eat tomatoes unless he was here for the summer.  He wore Brooks Brothers’ suits in the summer in Tucson. He never shed his formative years in Maine especially his beloved time at Bowdoin (Class of '38) where his best friends were people like “Bunny” (Bass) and Bill “The Fly” Inman.  Nor could he lose his accent. “Cam down,” were the words that echoed throughout my childhood. 

He has missed a lot, primarily meeting his two grandsons, Peter Warren Beiser and Franky Warren Beiser.  He is missed a lot. I have him to thank for everything, my introduction to the music of his era; my surgical precision in picking apart a lobster and getting every morsel.  He was the guy everyone in the office liked, all of my friends liked, my mother and I loved.  He was pure goodness. There was nothing not to like about him. You’ll just have to trust me on that.

I spoke to him by phone in the hospital a few days before he died. He said: “You’ll never guess who’s here…my brother John.  He is just down the hall.” Uncle John had died in 1973. My father had neither a shred of religious upbringing nor any sense of spirituality. But I was glad to hear that Uncle John was down the hall and I hoped his parents were there too, and that my mother had joined them a couple of years later. I hope they are all sitting around laughing in big easy chairs, drinking and smoking with impunity and listening to Benny Goodman on the radio.