one of the last times i saw peter was when he cam to our farm after i got diagnosed. he teared up when he hugged me and did not want to let go. he thought i was going to die. mary confirmed this recently. not only that but he was devastated that i could not have more children. my champion.
february 23rd just passed and i did not mark it. this was not intentional really, i had known it was coming but it slipped my mind. i spent that day, 6 days ago at peters funeral.
he was 67. he was the most intelligent man i have ever known. because of his intelligence i think it was hard for him to be here. in a similar way that being an HSP can make being human. he and money were not good friends. i don't know if he ever could have really cut himself free from that one. he was an alcoholic, and though heartbroken in life, i believe he made a choice. i do so to comfort myself.
here is the eulogy i read at his service at st. paul church on liberty street in ann arbor, michigan
on february 23rd 2015:
"peter brought me home to my love of the woodshop. maybe that is why he hired me on, he sensed i would tip over to the scent of sweet cedar and oak woodshavings. the hard blast of the oil heater and elevated hum of machinery that cradles brilliant hands. that massive log chomping wood stove burner that almost melted its pipe the day iforgot to tamp it down. he would take me out (on the clock) to gather the hen eggs. when he was evicted we hurried to fence our yard so we could foster the best of his flock. he continued for months to pull up in that big white van slinging a paper sack of crusty fries, dry pizza, buns. . . . he could not bare to pitch it with them on his mind.
peter placed shoved our farm house on territorial in my hands by a sheet of real estate paper. he brought that listing out to the shop for me and grumbled, 'hey you might want to look at this one. its a fixer upper and I'm way too old for that now.'
when my daughter was born peter took her so quickly to his lap. i saw him in his best self then. he brought for her some of anna's childhood toys that they had cleaned together and she had conceded release of. i remember the day i told him his work table was too close to the table saw for my wide childbearing hips and he chuckled coy and i knew i had won his heart.
when i went to peter asking for a job in 2006 he took me on though i had no real skill in fine woodworking. just crafty hands, good commitment, and a past with a father who kept a shop in my childhood home. i was smashed inside one of my bouts of depression early in our friendship. maybe that is how our souls recognized one the other. he was the only one who could give me a one-armed shoulder hug and tell me to, 'cheer up,' without royally pissing me off.
but what i am getting to is that his practice was to leave me these minutely detailed instructions. incase i arrived to the shop while he was still in the big house. i would pour over these plans while a voice in my head told me i had absolutely no idea what i was doing and that i was most likely going to screw it up. this happened frequently enough and i know he saw my reserve but he kept on the same. i can to see that he left me those instructions because he knew i could do it. he had a faith in me and way trying to let me know without spoken words. he would say, 'do your best and if you fuck it up we'll just fix it.' he let me know it was okay to make a mistake. i felt cherished and protected with peter around me. i would sometimes go to the shop just to sit up on the cabinets and swing my feet and be near him and all those opera tunes and noise and dust. that was the purest comfort to me. peter had faith in me in a way not entirely familiar to me by an elder. so i took his gift to heal my own wound there.
i really wanted to see you again peter. I've been trying for months peter i know you hear me. you always said i reached out right when you were trying to hide. and i would say, 'peter you are always trying to hide,' and you would say 'well yeaaaaa. . . . . .'
you used to tell me that anna and i were the only ones who texted you. if you got a text you knew it was from one of us so you would be compelled to answer. you would sometimes even answer my calls in the middle of teaching shop. i recall clearly you telling me about this beautiful younger woman who was courting you. wearing you down with fresh baked biscuits and pies you said. you fell for her you did.
i know you love me peter. i leaned on your love like my own blood family. like i do my oldest and dearest friends who share love unconditionally.
your stubbornness and pride aside.
you were a tender man.
i have not doubted your adoration for a second.
in devotion, caryn."
the body in the rented coffin at the east side of nie funeral home viewing room on carpenter was not his.
i asked the funeral director what side of the room the coffin was on before i walked in the double doors to prepare myself. the jews don't usually practice this ritual, and my bodymind still tangles up in fear in these situations. i see the point in it now. i don't find it scary, just odd. we make heartfelt actions of teaching hazel about the body and the spirit and where is peter and can i touch his hand and i miss my friend and i do not get even a tiny sense she is uncomfortable. this gives me great hope in her journey and also hugh fulfillment in our parenting.
so it did not look like him at all. mary and i talked about how in that moment it eased the pain somehow, that he had clearly left his body and was not here anymore to swoon on in regret.
but because of this i am throughout the day seeing him clearly as he was- dressed in his white painters pants and open button-down. hunched a bit in his posture and choppy in his gait. wire rimmed glasses. mad scientist passion. every time this happens my body convulses inside. trying to make sense of how alive he looks and the truth that i will never see him again.
