For Whom the Bell Tolls (No Man is an Island),  by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Dennis’ death is a tragedy for his sons and for Lisa, his wife, and for all those who loved him. I’m disinclined to appropriate the grief of others, but I do claim a sense of loss, for as John Donne said, Each man’s death diminishes me. And this time each man is Dennis Black, Texas City High School Class of 1964.

When Lisa gave us the news of Dennis’ passing, she reminded us he popped into the world on Halloween – probably scared the crap out of his mom and chuckled until he got whacked on the bottom by the doc. It’s possible he arranged to move to Texas City because the school colors were orange and (Dennis) black. Can’t you hear him making that jest? Perhaps Dennis thought April Fool’s Day might be a good time to check out, but a little too predictable for the crazy smart boy-to-man that was our Dennis, so he passed on March 31 instead.

Dennis and me, side by side, in Al Mitchell’s (Class of ’65) photo of the Danforth choir.

Most of us know the last lines of John Donne’s poem because of the novel by Ernest Hemmingway, but each word resonates anew as we grow older. Dennis was known to me only a little growing up, but he lived in my neighborhood. He hung out at the Big Chief grocery store, sat on the floor and read comic books, as I did. He was in the choir at Danforth Elementary School, same as me. I looked at old choir photos for a picture of Dennis, and I was astonished. There he is, right next to me, sporting that green blimp of a bow.

We’re both woven into the fabric of that life, part of the continent, a piece of the main that was Texas City in the 1950s and 60s. We walked the same playgrounds, heard the stories of our town’s disaster, lived under the real threat of hurricanes, and the dreaded spectre of nuclear war. We passed in the halls of Texas City High, and we took the same short walk on the Stingaree football field on graduation night. I don’t know what battles Dennis fought in his life after that, but I know he fought them, because we all do, every day. Some we win, some we lose.

Time passed, and by some grace I can’t explain, Dennis and I renewed our acquaintance, even briefly became friends. I loved the intelligent wit in his Facebook postings, particularly regarding his wife, Lisa. His love for her showed every time he used her name, and she was full of cheeky comebacks. I spoke to them at our 50^th reunion, told them how much I enjoyed their repartee, and as I shook hands with Lisa, I thought, Wow. What a stunning smile. I’ve seldom met anyone who exuded such warmth.

After the reunion Dennis and I entered into a lively exchange while playing Words with Friends. He beat me soundly sometimes, and competitive people love games but hate to lose. Even so, my good-humor resurfaced quickly. I was always ready for a rematch and eager for more Dennisisms.

Our brief friendship and his untimely death made me ask myself, in our last years, what opportunities do we have? We have the opportunity to pay attention, to reconnect with people. We have the opportunity – if we take it – to reembrace our family. Most important of all, we can teach our children two last things.

First, we can demonstrate that life isn’t over until the fat lady sings (sometimes we become the Singing Fat Lady). We can still hope for good news right around the corner, still stand in wonder every time the sun comes up. We can appreciate nature’s seasons and the variety that brings to life on earth. We can continue reading good books, eating tasty food. We can go on enjoying a few pulls on a slot machine hoping every time that we’ll win, and win big.

My kids are watching, even if they don’t realize it, as I continued to watch my own mother, and my husband’s parents, too. Parents show their children how to be, yet of all the passages in my life, getting old has been the most difficult, perhaps because of the disconnect between how my heart and mind feel and how my body feels. My heart and mind feel as they always have. My body, not so much.

But I try to avoid being what I dislike in other seniors. I don’t complain about my aches and pains constantly. I cultivate new interests and try to stay aware in a world that’s obviously going to hell in a handcart, and when I think that, I remind myself that every generation thinks that.

I can show my children how to get old, and didn’t Dennis do that well? I hardly knew he was sick until I knew he was dying, because in the simplest terms, he didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to be witty and sharp, ironic and aware, and most of all, alive. Time enough to be sick, when there’s no longer any choice.

I learned more about Dennis through the course of his illness, even though our lively word games ceased. He had a good relationship with his ex-wife, and that’s not always easy. So well done, Dennis. I learned he had a son with his ex-wife and two sons with Lisa, and the family blended well. Again, that’s not always the case. So well done, Dennis and Lisa.

The last thing we can show our children is how to die. Thanks to Lisa’s careful journaling, I think Dennis found contentment at home, and I think he knew when it was time to let go.

And well done, Lisa, for keeping us informed with as much optimism as possible. I understood the situation because I’ve been there with my mother. Diagnosis, surgery, chemo, other therapies. Then hospice. Someone brings morphine to keep on stand-by, then when death occurs the hospice person pours the morphine down the drain before they even check the pulse of the deceased. Probably not a bad idea.

In tributes to Dennis after he died I learned he was well-respected and well-liked within a caring community of journalists, former colleagues, and classmates. I learned I wasn’t the only one who considered him one of the wittiest people I ever knew. Well done, Dennis.

My mother, like Dennis, faced her death with joie de vivre. A few months before she died, we went to see the celebrated cherry blossoms in DC. The sun was out, a breeze shook pink petals into the air. We picked the delicate pink bits off the bread as we ate our picnic lunch. I’ll remember the joy on my mother’s face until my own dying day. I thought, yes, that’s how to do it. She had refused further chemo by then, so she could feel well enough to enjoy the last few weeks she had. Well done, Mom. I hope Dennis found pleasure in his last days. I think he did, so well done, Dennis.

Foolishly, I thought I could preserve that cherry blossom moment. I lined up a photo, my loved ones, the cherry trees, our dog, still a puppy then. The camera failed. I had forgotten to change the battery. I understand now it’s better that way, for life is ephemeral, like the blossoms, and a photo could never match the memory of that day.

The two characteristics I admire most in human beings are courage and a sense of humor, and Dennis had both. He chose to be braver and funnier as time passed. Did he face death square and laugh at the preposterousness of almost everything? I wouldn’t be surprised. After all, Green Garry, Dennis’ funky clay alter-ego, was included in the funeral, probably at Dennis’ request.

Dennis Wayne Black, Oct 31, 1945 – March 31, 2016.

The Class of ’64 has lost many of our number, and I wish I knew enough to say something true about each one. I am grateful that at least I came to be better acquainted with Dennis, purely by chance and the easy communication of the internet age.

Death will always have the last word, but I bet Dennis had the last laugh. He showed those who loved him how to get old and keep that sense of humor, and how to die with grace and courage.

So see ya, Dennis, and well done.