Life is for Living/Farewell Morgan
My father’s BFF Morgan died on the third day of our 5-day out-of-town family gathering. My dad and stepmom had seen Morgan and his wife right before the trip, sat by the 90-something’s bedside and wished him well on his next chapter. It was clear that Morgan was complete with his journey in this world and ready to move on.
He was 96 or 97 I’m told and had been well enough to double date with his wife, and my dad and stepmom a few weeks earlier. That was the last of many, many good evenings together in this life.
I met Morgan and his wife Margie after my dad and stepmom moved to the house they still live in, right before my 35-year-old (half)sister Rosie was born, four years before my sister Delish was born. I was already fourteen and fancied myself somewhat alternative, funky, with spiked platinum hair and a lot of very black eyeliner and mascara.
My 14-year-old funky self was concerned for my dad and stepmom that moving to the suburbs after being city people for so long would not be fun for them. I was also worried about my dad and stepmom’s choice that a tree-infested cul-de-sac on a boring old lake with so-called great public schools would provide a better childhood for my new baby sister than the urban upbringing I’d enjoyed.
How would my sister learn to ride the subway? Hail a cab? Dodge bike messengers? Eat a street pretzel loaded with mustard without it dripping? To my 14-year-old mind, depriving a child of learning these and other “street-smarts” at a young age seemed perplexing. Now, as a parent myself, I get it: A house, a home, a yard, a safe school, playgrounds, yeah those are pluses for kids.
And 14-year-old me harrumphs: But what about the people? Surely my educated, urbanite parents would be isolated “in the country.” How would they ever make friends?
And that’s where Morgan and his wife Margie come in: Soon after their move my father started jogging at the local high school’s track early in the morning. He noticed a group of guys who also jogged at the track early in the morning — Doc, the Rev, Louie D, and Morgan. And like that, dad had jogging buddies, who then became friends, who then became family.
Sometimes others drifted in and out for a year or two here, a year or five there, but it was always dad and Morgan, consistent, constant.
I was happy to hear dad had daily buddies to tell his jokes, bounce around ideas, and talk about life, family, kids, then grandkids with. As the years passed they met each other’s wives, families, shared each other’s ups and downs.
When I visited dad and my stepmom I’d sometimes get to jog with “the boys.” Morgan always made a point of engaging me, asking about the details of my life, remembering things about me my dad had told him or that he and I had spoken of on previous visits. He was one of those people with an amazing ability to make you feel like you were completely fascinating — the only person he wanted to talk to in the world. He was easy company. He laughed at jokes, even the ones that weren’t too funny. He was generous with his love and his light.
When I graduated from college and I was searching for a career he set me up with his successful kids for informational interviews. He was family like that. He was successful in business but modest in person. We never talked about his work but rather his wife, kids, and mostly me, my studies, my work, my boyfriends, my interests.
He’d say things like, “You know your dad talks about you all the time,” which I didn’t know. He seemed authentically interested in me. Maybe he was.
I’m not surprised that my stepmom and his wife Margie also became close friends over the years. Morgan and Margie had that right combination of warmth and willingness to enjoy life, bringing out the joy in a situation, along with a certain solidity, reliability, and character. They felt like people you could have fun with but who would also be there for you in a jam.
It’s a very lucky thing to have those kinds of friends. They are precious and too rare. I’ve always felt lucky to have Morgan and Margie as part of our extended family-by-choice.
So this week when Margie called to break the news to us that Morgan had passed on, our family was all together for the first time in four years due to various people’s health issues, work issues, and then of course covid.
We’d all made sacrifices to gather together and it was feeling so worth it just to be together, as a family, even after the 5 days turned out to be more like 2 days given the travel mishaps, hurricane warnings, and last minute covid precautions.
So worth it even after accounting for all our different quirks and food requirements and feeding times and bedtimes and exercise needs and play needs and nap needs and safety needs and all the rest of the coexisting that happens when eight adults and three kids ages 10, 6, and 4 get together under one roof.
And so even fresh in her grief Margie, true to character, continued to generously care for my dad and stepmom, for our family. She said, “Don’t leave your trip for the funeral, it’s close family and of course you’re invited. But it’s better if you just stay in my life.” And of course that’s what they will do and what we will do. Because that’s what true friends and true family do.
We stay in each other’s lives in meaningful ways, for the big stuff and the small stuff. We stay connected. Because life is for living and we get to spend each minute of it focused on what we choose to focus on.
Morgan knew how to live, and his memory reminds me of what matters most to me. Farewell, friend. Thank you for the love. I hope you can feel mine and our whole family’s love coming back to you. I’m gonna keep going.
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