The Closing

A post from back in June ends with these words:

As I boarded my flight back to Montréal, I received an unexpected—yet simultaneously expected—text that bore news of the imminent completion of another circle.

At that point, I wasn’t ready to write about the news of that text. I needed reflection and processing. This would require another trip to Boston, one that happened at the end of June.

The text was from Lisa. It held news that Irving Schwartz, my long time friend (to which I’ve long appended “who also happens to married to my mom”) was close to passing. Lisa is Irving’s daughter. She indicated his time could be days, even hours. Less than two hours later, when my plane landed in Montréal, Irving had departed on another kind of flight.

The Celebration

The return trip at the end of June was to join in celebration with many (many!) others to remember the varied dimensions that made up his 35,995 days. This past November 13 marked his birthday. Irving would have been 99.

In some ways, this gathering delivered the sensation that Irving was more alive than ever. Perhaps because we had the opportunity to see him through the eyes of many, some whom we only peripherally knew. Or whom we’d met earlier that day.

There were the jazz musicians with whom he played weekend gigs with for decades. The treasurer of the Boston Musician’s union reported he’d been an active member since 1940—85 years! My mother was born in 1941, for perspective. A saxophone quartet, all of whom he’d played with, brought home the power that instrument infuses into your bones. These guys were know to Irving as the “kids.” Which means they are my age (50s and 60s).

He also actively played with his with peers of his own age throughout his 90s. They’d come and practice at his and my mom’s home. Once, I remember being on a call with my mom. She told me, “I need to get off and make those boys lunch before they get too cranky.”

Irving also played with much younger “kids” as well. From his late 80s to mid 90s he taught an introductory saxophone class at Brookline’s Adult and Community Education Program (which my mom ran for decades). A group of four kept repeating the class with him. Why? Because he was also an exceptional teacher (to get an idea of what this meant, I suggest the extraordinary film about the legendary trumpeter Clark Terry, Keep On Keepin’ On). As I left the celebration, three of these very students approached me to chat. They came!

Irving was a teacher in other realms as well. First in the public schools of Newton, Massachusetts; then at Clark University; and, finally in my mom’s adult education program. I sat next to a gentleman, Mike Miles, during the celebration. Eventually we introduced ourselves. I asked him how he knew Irving. He told me that he was a student in Irving’s homeroom at Newton High School in the 1960s. How he knew to find and attend this celebration is a mystery. What is remarkable that he came, sixty years later, to celebrate Irving. He said he really didn’t recall talking much to Irving. Yet he came.

I was also surprised to see my mom’s youngest brother, uncle Ray along with his wife Judy, make the long trip down from Vermont. Irving and my Uncle Ray are very different people and I wouldn’t have expected him to come. It speaks much that he did. You see, Irving spoke with and engaged with everyone, regardless of station in life. While my Uncle Ray and Irving weren’t destined to be close friends, Irving and he connected in a way that made my uncle want to make the effort to honor him.

It’s a cliche, yet true: people don’t necessarily remember what you taught them. But the absolutely will remember how you made them feel.

A Play in Three Acts

This is an introduction to a trilogy. It’s been a seed of an idea in my mind for the last decade. I’ve written three pieces about Irving over a wide span:

• The first was on the occasion of his retirement from “working” 30 plus years ago. This piece also marked my rebirth a writer during massive transformational period in my own life.

• The second is a poem I wrote, out of a sudden stream of word, for his 90th birthday.

• The final piece is what wrote and read during his celebration in June.

I’ll be posting these three Irving pieces over the coming weeks. I’ll include links to them from here as well.

99 Years

The following is the text of a post I made elsewhere on the day of Irving’s birth earlier in November (his birthday is November 13).

Today is your 99th birthday, the first where we can’t call you on the phone to wish you well and celebrate all you have given to this world.

Thank you for introducing me as a kid to those tenor sax giants of the mid-century and to a myriad of other objects and ideas of profound beauty.

Irving Schwartz, you always “continued with style.” All of these images are of a man in his mid-nineties. May we all live to see such health.

On your birthday, I celebrated as you would have: a gin martini (humorously called a “Bomb” by you and my mom) while listening to Ben Webster’s Someone to Watch Over Me, recalling the animated conversations, the amazing food, and the laughter brought forth from your immense natural humor. And especially the love of learning and fascination with the grand mystery of the universe you infused into all you did.