"George has passed."
Word began circulating early Sunday in our small town. The hushed tones, shaded with loss and awe, and the meandering wandering of "Is this true?" ans "How did you hear?", because it was somehow as unbelievable as it was believably inevitable.
George.
The old fisherman.
The old farmer
The old friend.
Our man about town.
Our story teller.
Our history.
Most small towns have or have had a "George." The person who knows everyone, goes everywhere. The one who talks with everyone, and listens in return. The one who just is his marvelous self.
This is a loss, as it always is, when a piece of history drops into the infinity of the past. How strange the streets will seem, when the weather warms and human hibernations come to an end.
Someday, sometime, a former resident will ask about him, and someone will have to share the news.
The news will be as striking as it was Sunday morning, when it was a word of mouth shout.
This news will never be old, until all of us at the end of his story have followed him.
Until then, let us keep his memory alive.
More importantly, let us keep his meaning alive, to share and care.
Services will be private, as is fitting. In the end, the public man 'belongs' with those he's chosen. The public man, everyone's friend, belongs firstly to himself.
Let us give him the dignity of true respect.
Let us Remember him.
https://www.ecnurre.com/obituaries/George--R--Rooks?obId=24092725#/obituaryInfo
