SATURDAY THOUGHTS: PEOPLE YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW

One of my Mom's best friends, Allen Ward, passed away this week. 

I think I loved her, not only because she was a kind, delightful, wise woman, but because she really WAS such a good friend to my Mom. 

When I needed a listening ear after my Mom died, she made herself available. 

It would seem only natural for me to be saddened by the news of her death. I knew her. 

She was my friend, too.

I just read that Meinhardt Raabe has died. 

He was 94 years old. 

He played the part of the Munchkin coroner in "The Wizard of Oz". 

Everyone who knows me, is well aware of my great affection for the film. 

When I read the article about Mr. Raabe, my reaction startled me. 

As I read, there were tears in my eyes. 

Why on earth was I crying? 

I didn't know him, and he certainly didn't know me, but every time he sang those few lines about thoroughly examining a vicious enemy who had terrorized innocent people, and declared her "most sincerely dead", something inside me always rejoiced--and still does.

What is it about the death of a total stranger that moves us to sadness or tears?

When Lucy died, the phone rang all day, and I could hear the trembling in the voices of my friends, who like me, loved Lucy. 

I never met her either- ever. But when she died, I was so hurt. I knew that if I needed a laugh I could count on those episodes of "I Love Lucy". 

They were made before I was even born, and the series ended when I was still a very little girl.

 
There's something about good comedy. It transcends time. Funny is funny no matter who, what, when or where. When Lucy died, no one said, "Lucille Ball passed away". No, that would have been like talking about a stranger. Lucy was no stranger- at least that's the way it seemed. 

Although we didn't go to the memorial service, send flowers or cards, we still felt as if someone very near and dear was suddenly out of our lives. 

The same thing happened that Saturday morning when I sat down to check my e-mail, and saw the wonderfully joyous face of the impeccably groomed Bernie Mac. The words that accompanied the photo didn't make sense at all. 

I stared at the picture, and then stared at the words. The picture was registering but the words were not. 

I wasn't ready for that one. Was I supposed to be? I didn't know him either. 

It was weird. 

Yes. People die every day.

I sing fairly often at the funeral services of people I never knew--and yeah, my friends tease me about it all the time. But you still feel the loss whether you knew the deceased or not. 

Everyone has been touched by death. If you have a pulse, death- especially the death of someone who has had any impact on you at all- does something to your day. 

Why is it that when SOME strangers die, there's a peculiar shock followed by sadness that you can't immediately shake? 

Is it that you realize that even the remotest possibility of meeting them is suddenly gone? 

Is it that you anxiously awaited the next thing their life would bring? 

Was there surely something else that they would do in their lives that would brighten your own? 

I admit it. When I read the news of Bernie Mac's death I needed a little consoling! Not Uncle Bernie! Just as I'd done following my knowledge of the deaths of Meinhardt Rabbe, Lucille Ball, Bernie Mac, Michael Jackson, and others, I immediately wanted to see a picture or video. 

I wanted to hear a voice. 

I wanted them to make me smile, and entertain me as they had always done.

I suppose when you contribute to the human fund, compassion is one of the consequences. 

When my daughter came into my room and I said, "The coroner died". She knew exactly who I meant. 

I remember when Bernie Mac died, the phone rang. I answered  "hello", but instead of returning my hello, the caller sighed, "Bernie Mac passed away?" 

It was as if we were each hoping the other would expose yet another urban legend. 

I was hoping that some overzealous news media outlet had been too eager to spread bad news before all of the facts were in. 

But, as in every case, it too, was true. 

Someone dear was dead.

We can't do a thing about the deaths of celebrities, and have no ties except through a TV screen, radio, computer, or theater, but we hurt just the same. 

It's an odd kind of hurt though, that I'm not sure has a name. 

We ask ourselves, "Why didn't I know he was in the hospital?", or "Did you know he was sick?" 

We find ourselves acting as if we're supposed to be privy to that information.

It's what we do, I guess. 

It's a strange kind of concern.

As strangers pursue their dreams and aim to entertain us, we become the play relatives, friends, fans, critics, judges and juries. 

We act as if we have rights and privileges, and develop rather nasty attitudes when they just want the precious privacy that we demand for our own lives. 

The joy is that, we can still break out our CD's, DVD's, and other media, and get the fix that hooked us in the first place. 

We can laugh until we cry, or cry until we laugh, but in the back of our minds, lines are repeating, 

"Wow. 

He's not here anymore. 

She's gone. 

What a shame. 

He sure was funny. 

She sure was great".

For us millions of strangers, our beloved celebrities can still be funny, clever and convincing anytime we want them to be, and without any commitment or work on our parts. 

Our home media keeps our favorites alive. 

The truth is, that is as close as we ever were--unless we were fortunate enough to have had seats in some theater somewhere--and even then, we left with a ticket stub, a tee shirt, a poster, and memories. 

The "relationship" was over when the curtain went down. The "love" was exchanged, and then it's on to the next town for them, and back home for us. Somewhere, though, are their actual blood relations and friends who are hurting and devastated. 

We will also probably never meet them, either. 

They need our real prayers, and if we can't do anything else, we can surely pray.

It was impossible not to hear the pain and sincerity in the voices of the Kings of Comedy as they reminisced on Steve Harvey's show after Bernie Mac died. 

Media outlets can go on for hours and days with retrospectives and memorials. 

I remember Steve Harvey saying that when you're hurting, you don't need anything new. 

So after he reminded a few people whose show it was, he reached back and got "Heaven Must Be Like This" and "Devotion". 

I have to admit, old school worked for me, too that day. The Kings of Comedy did what they did best. They laughed and joked their way through their pain and, in turn, encouraged everyone who was listening.

Listeners heard the so-often said "I wish I had called", and "I wish I had the opportunity to say I love you".

I watch tapes of "I Love Lucy" regularly. 

I can't count the number of times I've seen the "Wizard of Oz". 

I watch reruns of The Bernie Mac Show. 

I love history-based programming, and classic television, so I'm always seeing the faces of those long gone, and often wondering if they had any idea of the impact and relevance they would still have in the future.

I can still see Lucy and Ricky, Fred and Ethel, Barney Fife, Fred Sanford, Mr. Humphries, Jack Tripper, Florida Evans, Maude, Samantha and Darrin, Jed and Granny, Uncle Bernie, and all of the Munchkins, any time I like. 

I suppose, as the reruns run, and the DVD's are made available, I'll have at least 100 different times to still listen to a hilarious contemporary storyteller called the Mac Man. 

I can celebrate someone who believed in himself and worked to make his dreams come true. I can laugh and smile as he talks to me and the rest of America, and says all the things we can't- or won't.
I can search YouTube, to my heart's content, for another dose of the talents of people I didn't even know, long after their lives are over. As I enjoy their gifts and talents, I can thank God for those who purposed to bring smiles and happiness into the lives of others. 

I can also thank him for the ability to feel sympathy and empathy.

We've gone through yet another Easter season of celebrating good news. 

The irony is that the good news involved death. 

The better news is that none of our stories have to end in a cemetery. 

Whether a brief life, or a long one like Meinhardt Raabe's we have a blessed hope that there's more. 

Perhaps the sadness we feel over an individual's death, whether they be a stranger or acquaintance, is that they're finished, and we're not. 

Their work is concluded, and ours isn't.

 

Perhaps the strange concern and sadness isn't about the deceased, after all.