Patrick's Light

A young man with something wrong and a big spirit, he filled the corner of the restaurant with an ebullient gayety and light. He seemed too open and forthright, unaware of his disability. I was working as a waiter while trying to get my art career going and for a moment, we looked at each other, and he positively gleamed. Later, another waiter remarked privately that he noticed something unusual in the young man—almost pitiful. On closer observation, the fellow could not use his right hand, and lacked full brain function . . . as if damaged very early on in life.

Kathleen and Patrick, circa 1967

Later, to my surprise, I learned that this person, Patrick, was the brother of the young woman I was marrying, Kathleen. The marriage lasted five years and produced my daughter Naomi, who died at age nineteen and whom I wrote a book about; A Heart Traced in Sand, Reflections on a Daughter's Struggle for Life. And now, just over a week ago, Patrick died at age 69.

A couple weeks ago, when I learned Patrick was in the hospital in critical condition, I was surprised, and then after he died two days later without many friends or family, I offered Kathleen to write the obituary. It appeared in the newspaper, and a small but interesting group of people showed up at the graveside memorial when Patrick's body, in a simple wood casket was lowered to its final resting place . . . only a few yards from Naomi's grave. 

Among the comments heard from mourners, a simple thread of testimony developed; how Patrick's unassuming sincerity, humility, and lively good humor meant a great deal to those he touched. A former Santa Fe City mayor was present, and remembered how Patrick would often arrive unannounced at city hall and walk straight in to the office with a big smile to say hello. This was when he had a job standing on a nearby street corner selling newspapers. The local paper he sold ran his obituary for free. Another man at the ceremony, a fellow paper vendor, was hit by a car, and when Patrick, who never drove a car, showed up at his bedside, he asked with surprise how he had arrived at such a distance in the dark. “I walked!” 

Another man tearfully remarked that Patrick was the truest human being he had ever met, and had a special inner light. And to this, I added, “Unlike most people who's light flickers on and off depending on if they are happy or sad, frustrated or angry, Patrick's light was always on.”

Patrick lived alone all his adult life, and when his cousin, a lawyer in nearby Albuquerque who arranged the funeral, was cleaning out his apartment, she said that among the memorabilia, were volumes of notes, written on scraps of paper—sometimes paper napkins—detailing the days events when he had been out walking and in stores, including the hour. Especially, Patrick wrote about people he met, friends and strangers, and noted them and how they touched his life. 

Now Patrick, I am writing for you, to say, you touched my life too.

This is the obituary I wrote:

Patrick White, age 69, passed away at St. Vincent Hospital, Wednesday, October 29. He was born in Panama, August 18, 1945, and came to the United States with his mother and sister in 1968—first to Florida, and then to Santa Fe in 1972. He was born with disabilities and did not finish high school, completing the eleventh grade. During the past two years, he took courses to get his GED but couldn't pass algebra.

Patrick worked as a janitor at De Vargas Mall and Paper Tiger, before working as a New Mexican newspaper street vendor.

Mr. White was a true lamb of God, without negativity, anger, or ill will. He was cordial, genuine and friendly with everyone, and had a child-like innocence that uplifted the people he met. He did not drive a car, so could often be seen walking in Santa Fe. He never had material riches but in spirit he was always full—never complaining and cheerful until the end.

He is survived by his sister Kathleen White of Santa Fe.

Graveside services will be held on Monday, Nov. 3 at 10 a.m. at the Santa Fe Memorial Gardens at 417 Rodeo Rd.  

I Always Loved Him

Dad, second from left at top

My father, who died only two weeks ago, was an enigma to me. I always loved him, and he represented a good human being and my parent, but he was mysterious and indecipherable almost from beginning to end. He had a fabulous life as an activist for social justice, reaching into the highest echelons of government and philanthropy, working behind the scenes to bring about better conditions for disadvantaged and oppressed people. A consummate strategist, his ideas were not about giving handouts, but rather bringing about social change so people could rise out of poverty and become contributing members of society. (See New York Times article.)

Richard Boone's trajectory from the time he finished study at the University of Chicago was that of social work, and he immediately rose to leadership in any work he found himself. For most of his life, he was at the top of his field—always the executive director.

For a man who worked so hard, he also had five children and a wife. I am the oldest son, and all the other siblings followed within eight years. Our circumstances were poor to begin, but improved to stable middle-class and upper middle-class. My father was never about getting rich—it was not in his perspective. He was a devoted father, but not the ideal family man. His work took precedence. I do have fond memories, especially the days we lived in Washington DC—of vacations, wrestling matches with him on the living room floor, and visits with him on weekends in his bedroom, where he sat me down and asked about how my life was going, lending all his attention to me for a wonderful hour. He also informed my life with the fascinating people he brought home. People of all races who he championed and chose as allies—people who would never have appeared in the homes adjacent to us. One summer, when I was a youngster and our family lived on Long Island, we welcomed into our home two inner city kids, brother and sister, from a gang riddled neighborhood in Spanish Harlem, New York City. I do not know how my father found them. They spent the summer as part of our family. The boy told me about the zip guns his friends made to shoot, and I was very impressed. I don't know how my mother handled seven kids then . . . my father was always surprising her and sometimes she complained loudly.

My father's folder he kept for me . . .

Dad was mysterious to me in that he did not share his inner feelings and was impassive. He studied and thought, and could be incredibly attentive, but also inaccessible. He never said, “I love you.” Yet, I knew he did in a deep way.
I never saw his body after he died, but arrived to the family home a couple days after he was taken away. Nothing much remained, since he was not a great collector of things and mementos. But he had folders for all his children, and I found letters and correspondence between him and I that he had kept.

I also found some hand-written notes he had made and considered important enough to stash away. Since he had no religion, he developed his own philosophy and reason for living. His notes indicate his primary beliefs were in:

1. The energy of love
2. Recognition of the world being bigger than “self.”
3. Live life so as to hurt others as little as possible.
4. Know that the individual is not the center of everything.
5. The imperative to build something of enduring value.
6. The dynamic process of becoming.
7. “Truth” can be found at any level; physical, emotional, rational, and spiritual.

I am feeling tides of emotion in the aftermath of father's passing. Death is final and draws a close to life.

Richard Boone
(1927-2014)Memorial Website

A Symphony Plays

It is odd, returning to my father's home in the wake of his death. The house that he loved is intact and outwardly at least, stands as it has for years. My mother is home, and the yard, garden, and inside are all neat and tidy. Yet, it is as if a symphony plays—missing an important instrument, and it is strange.

Click here to visit the memorial site for:

Richard Wolf Boone, March 29, 1927 - February 26, 2014

R W Boone Memorial

Death of Father

To laugh often and much;
to win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty;
to find the best in others;
to leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;
to know that one life has breathed easier
because you lived here.
This is to have succeeded.

attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson

Impatient Friend

The sight of my sturdy green suitcase, waiting to be filled, resting by my front door, suddenly filled me with gladness. It had been in storage too long and now was like an impatient friend, beckoning to adventure. Just the sight of it reminded me of Paris and Rome, Nairobi, Bangkok, Berlin, Chicago and Auckland, and many places in between. A thrill passed through me. 

 

This trip is not so exotic, but more of a pilgrimage. After my oldest daughter Naomi died in 1999, for many years I would return to San Francisco in the spring to remember her and the life we lived there during the four months prior to her death. Those days were powerful, as we were constant partners, blazing through the days, burning the candle at both ends. Life seemed magnified by death—and so it is when I revisit places we visited during our last months together before she hastened on ahead of me into the next world.

The hotel I stay at in San Francisco, The Seal Rock Inn, is where Naomi and I lived. It is across the street from Sutro Park, where you can stand and see the Golden Gate Bridge. The first year, when I returned alone, a small shrine had been set up in my room as a gift by Cecilia, the manager of the front desk. The staff remembered Naomi. The Seal Rock is a family owned hotel with homespun values, and as I returned year after year, I counted on seeing Kate, an old woman who cleaned rooms. She was slow, but valued and we always had conversations. She read my book, A Heart Traced In Sand, about Naomi and our journey together. The last time I visited, Kate was 70 years old and still rode the bus to work and back home. That was four or five years ago, and now, I wonder, will she be there?