St. James, revisited . . .

The St. James service for Bob was a tough one, tougher than the one we held last week, up here, for so many reasons . . . though I kind of expected that, I still wasn't entirely prepared for just how tough the day would be . . .

St. James is where Bob grew up, went to school, fought his first valiant battle with cancer . . . it's where he forged some incredibly strong and long-lasting friendships, held fond memories of a million and one "coming of age" stories, from his Jake's Pizza days, to his golf and music development, academic accomplishments, dating triumphs and woes . . . St. James is where I met Bob, a complete and utter freakish chance meeting that never should have happened, given the million and one chain of events that had to come into play for our paths to cross that fateful August evening in 1992 . . . someday, I may share the story with you all, when I can tell it without crying uncontrollably . . .

The service was definitely different than the week's before, not something Bob would have chosen (the previous week's likely wasn't either), but Bob also understood that a church service and burial were very important rituals for his parents to have, and he was okay with all that. One of his endless, admirable traits was his respect and tolerance for everyone, as well as for their beliefs, even those he didn't necessarily agree with . . .

Anything for Mom and Dad . . . he loved his family so much, was so grateful for all they did for him, not just in the past year and a half, but throughout his entire life . . . even though Bob was such an individual, marching to his own drum beat, he always acknowledged that it was his strong and solid family that made the foundation of the man he was, right up until he died. . . Penny and Jim were very conscious of Bob and his final wishes and worked very hard to keep the service subdued and respectful of who Bob was, but at the same time, doing what they needed to do to help themselves grieve, to have their say in who Bob was and what he meant to them as a son, an immeasurable, inextricable part of their lives . . . what I came away with, from the entire experience, is that St. James was a wonderful place for Bob to have lived his formative years—so full of kind, generous, giving souls who step in and do whatever they can to assist a grieving family . . . that Bob made a lasting, memorable impression on everyone who knew him, that the pain of his passing was felt deep and wide, throughout the community . . .

The last time I was in St. James, Bob was with me, most likely Christmas of 2008. I drove past Penny and Jim's old house on the way to their new place; my eyes flooded with tears . . . I slept in the bedroom where Bob and I slept the last time we were down visiting; I didn't sleep all night . . . I walked the dogs past Bob's old high school, down the same city streets where he likely roamed with friends on a Saturday night back in his younger days; I could hardly breathe, the pit in my stomach took up so much room . . . the church where Bob's service was held was where we attended Christmas mass with his family every year. . . so many people with long-standing connections to Bob—old teachers, old friends, old neighbors, most of whom knew Bob long before I ever did. . . so many stories, so many kind words and memories shared, even more tears . . . many of my relatives who lived in the area were also there. My aunt, Caroline, who had lost her Bob many years ago, at the age of 44, same age as my Bob. As we hugged tightly, I asked her if it gets any easier with time, does it ever go away, the pain? No, she whispered in my ear. It never goes away, you just get used to it . . ."I didn't think so," I cried softly into her shoulder. . . all weekend, I was overcome with wave after wave of sickening crying jags . . .

On my way out of town, though tears were blinding my vision and I was nearly

hyperventilating from crying, I drove down to the edge of town, to the Hickory Inn, where I met Bob for the very first time, 18 years ago. I turned around in the parking lot, pulled over to the side of the road and snapped a few pictures. . . the place where history was made. . .