“Good-bye Perry Como . . . . Again”
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Isn’t it strange how the death of celebrities can
affect us? They are people that we usually know only superficially. Our knowledge
is limited by the information that filters down to us through the media. But
their lives and deaths can be events that touch the most basic core of our
being with an intensity that can be surprising. As time passes the event is
often framed within the context of a period when our own lives were changing
and can add to its endurance and meaning. And of course we each add our own
individual private |
dimension to the public experience. I was sad for a few
days when Diana was killed in that car crash. But for whatever reason the
sadness has not endured. I didn’t understand the national mourning for Dale
Earnhardt. I still cry when I think of the loss of John Kennedy Jr. and his
wife Carolyn. And please don’t remind me of the day Mickey Mantle went over
to the other side. When he died I had this visceral feeling that I had lost
the last vestige of my youth. Even worse I realized that I was probably
mortal also. So
on May 13, 2001 when I read that Perry Como had died the day before I was
struck with that familiar wave of disbelief as my mind retrieved old memories
of his songs and images from his television shows. Perry Como was a known
personality in my family from the time he began his television career in the
late forties. Even during the turbulent transition epoch of the sixties he
was a fixed constant star in a changing universe. He was obviously a good man
who knew who he was and was happy with who he was. His songs were always
light-hearted happy songs that I could naturally remember: “Hot Diggity,”
“Catch a Falling Star,” ”Magic Moments,” “Round and Round,” “Wild Horses,”
“Til The End of Time,” “Don’t Let The Stars Get In Your Eyes” are some of the
songs I remember most clearly. In a family of five very different people (was
I really related to them?) we all liked him. No small achievement there. My little sister adored him. She was only four years
old when my parents bought her a little black and white kitten that she
immediately named Perry Como. I was eight and had never lived with a cat. We
were pretty much a dog family. But this little creature that purred while
sleeping in a spot of sunlight on the floor and who swatted at strings
dangled in front of him began to win my affection. We underestimate by many
factors the intelligence and emotive powers of our pets. We also
underestimate the meaning and value of the depth of our care and affection
for them. During a bitter marriage dissolution that began six years ago I
went through a divorce/child support/custody system that is every bit as
oppressive and destructive of basic human rights and dignity as any political
system the world has seen. This system took my three small children away from
me with no rights of contact or parenting time. I can say very truthfully
that my dog Charlie and cat Devil have kept me more or less within the
boundaries of sanity while I struggle to hold my balance and fight that
system. Perry Como the cat did not play such a central role
when I was eight but he was a daily presence in my young life. Sometimes he
would sleep on my sister’s bed. Sometimes on mine. Yes, they understand
politics also. One day I came home from school and I didn’t see him around
the house. After a while I asked my mother if she had seen him. She told me
he had followed her as she walked from Arthur Kill Rd. to Main Street to go
to Ralston’s. When she was finished shopping he was not outside the store.
She assured me that cats know where they live and he would find his way home
soon. Well, he never did. After four or five days I remember praying for his
return. I pictured him lost, hungry, hurt, frightened. I didn’t want to leave
the house because I knew I had to be there if he wandered by and didn’t
recognize the house. Surely he would know me. My mother tried to help by
telling me not to worry and that after all, he was only a cat. Even as an eight year old I realized that my
grown-up mother had no idea what I, a child, was feeling. An experience
utterly fundamental to the human condition was felt (not articulated – I was
not precocious) very early in my life as it is in the lives of most little
children: I felt alone in my anguish and bewildered over why God had answered
my prayers with silence. As I grew older (much older) I understood the
importance of keeping in mind how children experience the world: absolute
feelings unfettered by reflective thought, thoughts in pictures not words,
the outside world divided between places that are safe and places that are
scary, creatures (people included) that want to care for and protect you and
creatures that want to harm you. I resolved never to forget what it is like
to be a child. This resolution was in my mindset almost half a
century later when it made the loss of my children many times more painful. I
knew the fear and incomprehension that they must have felt when suddenly
their Father was not there to help feed and bathe them (I always sang
“Splish-Splash” when I would put three happy giggling children in a tub
filled with bubbles and colorful floating toys), tell them stories at bedtime
and answer their questions about bugs and rocks and stuff. Finally (I don’t know how long it took), I realized
that Perry Como was never coming back and I said good-bye. I’ve had to say
good-bye to grandparents, parents, friends and pets over the course of my
life. This second good-bye to Perry Como was not as existential as the first
farewell. There was just a simple bittersweet sadness to it. I’ve read that
loss is necessary. Cold comfort, I say. I’ve also read that what doesn’t kill
me makes me stronger. I need to stay strong. Someday my children may find
their way home again and I have to be there. |
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