Three years ago today my father passed away. Two years ago today, one of my closest friends Melinda Maria Spigel lost her father, Frank. And then yesterday I saw the attached article about Mr. Wendell. Guess its just that time of year... Instead of writing something special about my dad today, I wanted to say something about my dad and Wendell together. See, the truth is, my dad and Wendell were friends. For many years, my dad would run up and down San Vicente Boulevard. And almost every single day there would be Wendell outside of Vicente Foods with a smiling face, a word of encouragement and then a beautiful poem that he would hand to my dad. Wendell was one of the most prolific writers I knew. And my dad would bring all of Wendells poems home and we would read them together. My dad treasured those poems. Looked forward to them. (The only other thing I ever remember my dad looking forward to reading was Drabble in the comics section of the newspaper.) Honestly, I wish I had kept all of Wendells work. We continuously marveled at his sophistication and deep insights about the human condition. His poems were at once mature, hopeful, truthful, and profound. I remember times they would leave my father in tears. And my father was not particularly a man who cried. I guess I got that gene from my mothers side. Over the years, my father gave Wendell lots of clothes and whatever money he had on him. But I can promise you, Wendell gave my father far more in return than my dad ever gave him. My last real memory of Wendell was walking my son Miles in his stroller down San Vicente a few days after my dad had died. I was lost, confused, angry, grieving... As we passed by Wendell he said - How are you today? I stopped and told him that he was friends with my dad, and my dad had just left us. I told him how much my dad always loved and respected him and his work. And I asked him if he had any poems that might give me comfort during this time of mourning. (Im sure I could barely get the words out as I was talking to him.) Mr. Wendell reached into his file folder and handed a poem to me. The poem was not about death or dying. But I know it had something to do with human connectivity and soul and how we all are in this great struggle together. Whatever the subject matter was, it was exactly what I needed at that time. Im not a very religious man, but I genuinely believe that Wendell was touched by God. And so here I am, another year later. Another milestone, I guess. Although there are moments when the pain seems as fresh today as it did three years ago. But today I am oddly comforted by knowing that Wendell is up there somewhere with my dad. Im hoping my dad is running again. And Im hoping that when he passes by Wendell, Wendell hands him a poem that he just wrote. And while that poem may not have anything to do with our family or life at home since he left us or the wonderful relationships with his grandchildren that he was robbed of far too soon, Im hoping that poem gives my dad comfort, too. Just like Wendell gave me. Wendell, Drabble, Frank and my dad in heaven together. Its an idea that makes me smile. westsidetoday/2014/09/12/wendell-brown-homeless-poet-brentwood-dead-69/
Posted on: Sun, 14 Sep 2014 23:51:16 +0000
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