My dear friend, Bill White, turned 90 on April 16, 2020. He died of Covid-19 four days later.
A while back, maybe six years ago, while getting some of his things in order, Bill asked me to speak at his funeral. He wasn’t sick, and there was no reason to believe he would pass any time soon, but I guess you think of your own mortality when you’re on the other side of 80. Of course, I said yes.
But in the spring of 2020, there were no funerals or memorials. We had to wait until this past weekend for that. These are the words I delivered On Saturday.
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Outsiders might think my friendship with Bill was odd—he was old enough to be my grandfather—but anyone gathered in this room knows that wasn’t odd for Bill. Bill was a magnet for friends of all ages. Ours was a friendship born of mutual interests, most notably travel and storytelling. And, of course, food.
I first met Bill in about 1995 when he provided professional development in the district where I taught. I was walking toward my assigned workshop when delicious aromas and interesting music wafted into the hall from a different classroom. I impulsively entered the room. An elegant, silver-haired Isabel (his wife) enthusiastically welcomed me to the workshop. I sheepishly replied that I wasn’t registered for their workshop—I was drawn in by the music and delicious aromas (of nasi goreng, an Indonesian dish, I later learned).
Isabel introduced me to Bill. In a flash, we realized we had much in common. We had both lived in Southeast Asia. We loved travel and cooking foods from other cultures, and we strove to bring a world view to our teaching. I left with Bill’s assurance that he’d be back for the next professional development day, and I promised to sign up.
That chance meeting paved the way for a professional relationship: we provided professional development for teachers through a variety of organizations and co-authored an article for Green Teacher Magazine. Our friendship grew during this time as we expanded our meetings to include our spouses for shared meals and celebrations.
Our friendship really deepened about sixteen years ago when we started meeting monthly in the café at a bookshop halfway between our homes. We’d enjoy a coffee and a muffin and share the writing we’d worked on in the last month. Bill was writing his Grandpa Tales, a collection of stories about his life meant for his grandchildren. I was making my first attempts at writing books for children. We’d read each other’s work and offer meaningful critique. We’d finish our meeting and then move next door for lunch at a restaurant that had outstanding crab cakes that Bill loved to order.
Bill was always a wonderful storyteller, but I was amazed by the new stories I learned during that time. You know how people often tell the same stories over and over? Bill didn’t do that. Sure, I heard an occasional repeat, but Bill lived such an adventurous life that he didn’t need to repeat himself. There was the time he flew upside down in a bi-plane crop duster as a teen. There was the time his Boy Scout leader dropped them miles from anywhere with the gear they had packed for one overnight. They had to find their way home—a hike of some twenty miles. And then there were the tales of his life overseas with Isabel. They lived in Malaysia, Indonesia, United Arab Emirates, and Pakistan. He met drug lords and famous musicians. While living in Indonesia, he and some buddies went out for a sail. A powerful gust broke the mast in two places. They managed a treacherous sail home by rigging the jib sideways.
Bill’s Grandpa Tales were the stuff of legends, not just stories for his descendants to read. I asked if he might try to publish them, but that was never his goal. He wanted his grandchildren to know him.
He finally “published” copies for his family at Staples and gave me a one. My then, ten-year-old son read every page. I cherish it. Rereading it helps me feel close to him again.
At a certain point, when macular degeneration had robbed Bill of his ability to drive, I started making the trip to his house. Even when he could no longer see his written words he’d scratch onto a yellow legal pad. When I visited, I’d help decode his scratches and type them up. Sometimes his writing was illegible so we’d do our best to puzzle out what he meant to say (to be fair, his handwriting was terrible even when he could see).
Of course, anyone who knew Bill knows how much he loved food. We’d laugh when he shared tales of his travels because, inevitably, the story would turn to the great meal he ate on this death-defying day in the mountains of Pakistan or the delicious snacks they had in the rain forest of Indonesia.
In the spring of 2016, my family was considering a move to Dublin, Ireland. Bill thought this was a wonderful idea. By May, our plans were confirmed, and with each monthly visit I could feel Bill’s growing excitement for us, and his growing sadness that we wouldn’t see each other every month. Then, his health took a turn, and he was hospitalized. On the day of my last visit before we moved, I sat in my car and sobbed. I feared I had just said my last goodbye to my friend.
But then, a miracle. He recovered and was back to living in his two-story home, where he most wanted to be. Even better, Julie (his daughter) and I worked out a plan for Bill to visit us in Dublin. Of course my friend still had the travel bug! He was legally blind, needed hearing aids, and used a cane to walk due to a bum knee from all of those years of running with the Hash House Harriers. Yet, there he was, across the pond with me!
The pace of his visit was slower than in the past, but Bill was as passionately curious and engaged with the world as ever. We went to the National Museum of Ireland to see a famous sailboat that had smuggled guns into Ireland to fight British occupation. He ran his hands along the sides to feel the wooden hull. He wanted me to read every placard so he could learn as much as possible. Another day, we visited the Chester Beatty Library to see ancient artifacts I knew he’d appreciate. He surprised me by identifying a Buddhist prayer wheel before I even read the caption. The light was just right for him to see the outline of it. Then we had lunch at the Silk Road Café. Those who know Bill will know that foods from along the silk road were right up his alley. Of course, we ended with “just” a little taste of baklava.
Before Bill returned to the States, our family brought him to Brazen Head Tavern, the oldest tavern in Ireland (1198 A.C.E.) for fish and chips and a glass of Guinness. He soaked up all the history of the place and grinned from ear to ear as he enjoyed his Guinness. He looked right at home there.
Bill was ninety when he died. He lived a rich life, full of family and wonderful friendships. I feel like I know all of you, even though we might not have met, because his stories were often tales of you, too. I wish I had more time to share stories and good food with Bill, but I will always be grateful for the gift of his friendship.