jerry grimaldi

"good and bad," my mom started, and i instinctively got the same vibe as when i came home the night after exams finished 2 years ago. that night, my dad was in the hospital for a heart condition; my family had chosen not to tell me, so as to not distract me from my studies.

"your dad and i went to the golf course this morning, jerry was there with all his old fart friends," she continued. i didn't want to believe that something had happened to one of my parents' best friends, an ex-fbi agent and teller of tall tales "we were making our way around the course, and a bunch of fire trucks pulled up to the front of the course."

my neighbor died today.

jerry grimaldi suffered a massive heart attack on the green of the oak mountain state park golf course. my mom thought out loud, "i think i was the last one to give him a hug."

this is the man who showed up to my parents' new years eve party wearing a jet black suit, frilly baby blue shirt and the shiniest black shoes i've ever seen. "the wife of the dictator of bolivia stepped on this shoe while we were dancing," he'd boasted. "i used to fit into this suit when i bought it in 1972."


jerry was always telling some story about driving the vice president in a stretch limo through a centuries-old town so small the limo grazed the corners of buildings on a sharp turn. his first job as a 13-year-old in new york city was as an elevatorman in a skyscraper. clark gable or one of those guys rode in jerry's elevator on the way to the US army office. he unfailingly proclaimed his atheism in the face of my christian father and mother. he and my parents exchanged books about their religions.

it's an interesting thing, the concept of death, the thought that people just go away and don't ever return.

22 January 2009

"One day in particular stands out to me as a very productive day on the quad, which has absolutely nothing to do with being a productive academic student. It was this past October. My senior year had recently begun and my mind was full of plans for after May, graduation, and for tonight, but the sun was shining beautiful and I had to be in class in five minutes. I had put off reading the Chaucer or James Joyce or whatever the required reading was for the day, instead having spent hours entranced by the more accessible and entertaining books dealing with the ancient bohemians of the French Quarter who are understandably so attractive to someone who is stuck in college for the fourth year.

While smoking a cigarette with friends, a short-lived habit I picked up during a summer spent in South America, I decided against going to class utterly unprepared. Instead I wheeled my bike to the shady side of the quad and instinctively threw off my cardigan to spread onto the ground under my elbows. As I caught up with the reading for the class I was in the process of missing, so much life was happening on the quad. Some friends had piled into a couple hammocks nearby to nap. To my right, a shirtless student played the guitar and sang badly, but I eventually moved closer to him in hopes of drowning out the sound of dance music playing on loud speakers across the way. Some boys were in the throws of an ideal pickup football game, and Denny Chimes rang true with somber songs of mourning for a memorial service. People who huddled around the chimes wore black; another student had died in a car accident.

A friend passing by on his bike stopped to say a hello which turned into a conversation about just how much was going on around us. As we spoke, an older man puffed on a pipe between throwing a tennis ball to his golden retriever. Suddenly the dog bolted away, seemingly for nothing at all, but stopped just short of a grey-haired woman who greeted the dog warmly, then joined the man and pulled out her own pipe. As they smoked together my friend left me, and as far as I could tell we were both equally spellbound by the substance of the stuff we saw that day."

well friends, now i heed another calling to the quad. to keep going this circle of life on the quad.