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Aug 10, 2004 Last night at 8:51 a group of angels gathered at number nineteen Second Street. They were there to help escort a beautiful man from one life to the other. His spirit rose up and he looked down at his physical form, now silent, free of pain and at peace. His family was gathered there and he and the angels smiled because family is what he loves best. As he was leaving with the angels he brushed his hand over his wife’s hair and blew a kiss. The kiss made the air in the room move gently. Then he turned and, surrounded by angels, he went on. This is not a eulogy about a former president, sports figure, or unbelievably wealthy celebrity. This is about a man who was a husband, a father, a grandfather, and a good friend, a beautiful man. Frank Spears was not famous, was not a multi- millionaire, was not a man who would even seek celebrity, but his passing deserves as much note as the passing of the rich and famous. Frank was a beautiful man in all the ways that the human spirit can be called such. He was a hardworking man, a man who loved his two sons, his daughters-in-law, and was crazy in love with Pat, his wife of 47 years. His grandchildren gave him absolute joy and he was never happier than when everyone was together for holidays. He loved the simple, pure pleasures of life. A devoted Jets fan, he loved sitting in the stands on cool crisp days to cheer on his team. He loved fishing with his sons in the Great Lakes, and vacationing in the summer on Diamond Beach at Wildwood Crest down the Jersey shore. He loved westerns, World War II history, liverwurst sandwiches from Harold’s New York-style deli, and Seinfeld. He was a neighbor, the best neighbor anyone could hope to have. Alan and I were fortunate to know him for twelve years. Never without a smile, always ready to help, never too busy to talk to you, that was Frank. Frank loved the cold weather. I hated it. It became a running joke between us whenever we saw each other outside. “I heard on the news its going to snow tonight,” he’d tell me in July. There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes and we’d both start laughing. Hey, Frank,” I’d say in December, “the temperature is going up to the eighties! We’re going to have a really warm winter!” He’d look at me startled and then give me that grin that true friends use when they know each one is joking. Frank loved to joke around. The day after Alan’s beloved Yankees lost the 1997 post season series to the Cleveland Indians Frank waited until he saw us outside then came out wearing an Indians baseball cap and asking Alan how the Yanks did yesterday! He said Alan had looked so sad that he had to do something to cheer him up! We all started laughing. We visited Frank at his home two weeks before the angels came. As he lay in bed, exhausted from battling cancer, he was trying to make everyone around him feel good by joking, and making us laugh. He said he was a little tired and apologized to us if he fell asleep while we were there. I rubbed his arm and told him not to worry about falling asleep. I told him it was hot as hell outside but nice and cool in his room. Nice and cool to take a nap. He smiled that beautiful smile at me and said, “Okay.” Then he looked at me again and raised his hand. “Good-bye.” He dozed off still with that smile on his lips. Frank Spears was a beautiful man. I know that when the angels came to take him to his new life he was smiling. I’d like to think that he’s in a place with cool, crisp air, lots of fish to catch, and his team is always winning. Hey, Frank? The weather is hot today but I hear it’ll be cooler tonight. I’ll be thinking of you, you beautiful man. Be happy. ------------ About the author Kristen Houghton: Working on a book of short stories, I write a column, "The Writer's Block" on observations of everyday life and a column for educators called iTeach! Email: Krisnalan@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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