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| Mt Carmel Cemetery in KC |
Last weekend I flew to Kansas City. I was in town a total of 17 hours. Then back to the airport and on to Nashville. Most of the people who attended the funeral of our friend (or for some, a family member) lived nearby and they could attend not only to the chapel and gravesite services, but also to Shiva held later that afternoon. I had to head back before the Shiva gathering.
They say, "funerals are for the living, not for the dead." They may be right. The reason we gathered at Mt Carmel was to farewell Dr Robert Levene. For some it was cathartic; for others appropriate and polite; for me, it was very personal. Bob and his family had moved to our neighbourhood when we were about 10, and he and I became fast friends. We were both November babies, and thus usually among the youngest in our classes. He was 10 days my junior. Early on we played together, sometimes with others from the school or the synagogue to which we both were regular in attendance. He and I were very often playing singles tennis until the middle of junior high school. We were in the same class in Hebrew school and graduated there in 1966. We rode bikes together. I remember a time Bob was over at my house and my parents were gone somewhere. My sister was 'in charge' and for whatever reason she determined it necessary, she chased him out of the house with a broom. Needless to say, Bob didn't return very soon after that.
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| Hebrew school graduation |
We played chess and had tournaments at his house or ours. Other Jewish boys from the neighbourhood joined us. We loved science and had a chemistry club in at least my garage, maybe in his, I don't remember. Nowadays we would have video evidence from our TikTok and YouTube channels, but back then, nope. All we had and have is our memories.
Maybe that's why we attend funerals. To recapture the lost memories. To remember. To remind ourselves we were not always 73 yearss old. Of course, memories are often seen through glasses that are rose-coloured. Especially as times increase between them and us from hours to days to decades. So one person tells a story, and without a challenge, those stories will now remain true for all time. And as each person passes out of our spheres, less corroboration is possible. Oh for a journalist among us who would keep the truths and keep them accurately.
Dr Bob as he came to be known was a searcher, an inquisitive, a man of 20,000 books in his library, which no doubt will be dismantled. He ended his life with some significant satisfaction. In the final week, he got to see his grandchildren who are both pre-school aged. What a treasure that is to Bob's two sons and it was to him as well, I'm sure.
We argued about so many things, and in his most lucid moments over the last five years, those arguments were healthy and cordial, loving and respectful, as all debates ought to be between friends. He wondered about eternity and his final resting place. He listened as I explained my views on God, on Jesus, on resurrection and eternity. I bought him a Bible and had his name engraved on the front. Another time I brought him a couple of DVDs from the tv series "The Chosen" and according to his attendants, he really enjoyed watching those.
We stopped playing tennis back in school days, and Hebrew and chemistry gave way to other pursuits, but friendship knows no bounds and no insurmountable obstacles. In the last 18 months I've lost some men in KC with whom I walked in my youth, like Dave Rabinowitz and Danny Kass, like Hyman Seifer and now Levene.
When I return to visit my sister and some local KC family and friends, a piece of my life will be missing. I'm a better man for knowing Dr Bob. Maybe he was better for knowing me, but that's not for me to know or at this point, even to consider.
Today, what am I going to do to make the world in which I live a better place? Tennis has given way to pickleball. Chemistry has given way to other academic interests, especially history. Synagogue continues and has widen to messianic interests and the Gospel Truth has replaced true-enough thinking.
Each day I age, but only one day at a time. Our lives in Prairie Village gave way to St Joseph for him and New York City, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington, DC, and Sydney Australia for me. But home is where the heart is, and our hearts were ever together then, and he remains in mine to this day. Funerals are for the living.
