December 16th, 2017.

I went to the memorial service of Richard Morris today. You won’t know who he was. A lot of people did though. I was surprised by how many. The parking lot was packed, every chair filled. They brought more chairs and filled another room and the latecomers still had to stand. I caught myself thinking like a musician and thought “I bet the venue’s happy, they’ll probably book him again”.

To me Richard Morris was a key part of my past – the father of the woman I dated through much of college. He was integral to introducing me to what family could and maybe should be. He was a force of joy and noise – usually at the same time. He was probably one of the first significant-other’s-fathers who I worked to win over in some way – and because I was a selfish late teen / early twenty-something, I never understood how much more he was.

The memorial service was beautiful. Awkward, difficult. I was asked to step in and help with sound problems, though I wasn’t able to help. The projector wouldn’t come on. The sound wouldn’t come on. It came on later when it wasn’t supposed to. People stumbled over words after declaring themselves very good public speakers. I enjoyed the use of the word “Gregorious” when I believe “gregarious” was meant and it was frankly too long. But it was an amazing showcase of things that he’d done with his Life.

As the boyfriend of the youngest daughter, I knew he sang heartily. I knew he wrote. I knew he did something to do with architecture and I knew he was into his church. I knew he went to Vietnam. I knew he’d come back. But I hadn’t seen the Fiddler on the Roof pictures, and I hadn’t heard his voice in a long, long time (though instantly recognizable). I didn’t know they’d fostered lots of kids beyond their one adoption. I hadn’t seen pictures of the homes he’d built nor had I know that that place we stayed on Deep Creek Lake was one of them. I hadn’t seen a picture with him standing in the jungle with a gun. I didn’t realize how much like him his older daughter looked.

Maybe there was hyperbole, but judging from how many people who’d come out to say their farewells and to support the family, I kind of doubt it. I sort of regret not knowing more of his Life before it was merely his legacy, but I was glad to be in the room. Huddled in the back with the singer/songwriters who stood when asked to stand… we were the atheists who don’t actually read music so we read along while the others sang. Audrey and Rick performed a couple of numbers and my heart ached to see Audrey grieving. Her adopted brother, Alex – who I’d never known to speak more than a sentence or three – opened up with one of the most beautifully written tales, memories of working on the car together, of family – it took him a long time to work up his courage, to calm his crying, and a friend who was a dead ringer for Luke Cage snuck to the front to lend him support. When he had finally steeled himself for speaking to his audience, it was the distillation of what everyone else had TRIED to say – even Audrey’s music didn’t capture this. I think Richard knew how much his kids Loved him, but I wish he could’ve seen that speech.

Lea and her bass player Will had snuck in at some point and did a couple of really beautiful tunes. It was good to hear her voice – but I snuck away during the goodbyes. I don’t think I had anything else to say. I saw a lot of old, old friends who didn’t see me. And I’m not sure that I regret that. For all that funerals and memorial services are usually good places for people to come back together, for old friends to reconnect, I just felt awkward and broken. Like… these were some of the people who saw me before I saw myself, and I don’t know that I want to think about that.