“Paul here”

How I miss hearing those words. That was the way my friend Paul always answered the phone. He died recently after a long bout of heart problems. With his passing, I lost not only my connection to him but also one of the last real ties I had to San Francisco, where I lived for thirty years. I will never hear Paul’s voice again, and wonder if I will ever visit that city again.

I met Paul in the early 90s. We shared many interests particularly those related to mushrooms and beekeeping. I first encountered Paul at a meeting of the Mycological Society of San Francisco, where he was already leading mushroom forays, while I knew almost nothing about mushrooms. It was beekeeping, though, where we really connected. We started keeping bees about the same time, and we learned beekeeping together, helping each other assess our colonies, move hives, and capture swarms. We were back-to-back presidents of the San Francisco Beekeepers Association.

In addition, we were members for many years of what we called our San Francisco tertulia, a group of about ten people who met for well over twenty years to share coffee and conversation every Saturday morning at a local coffee shop near 8th Avenue and Fulton.

The connection I had with Paul was not just social or about shared interests. We supported one another during difficult times as well. I saw him through a divorce and provided support as his health declined. He gave me solace when I went through my own relationship problems, listening without judging and without offering advice. He was a wise man.

We remained in contact even after I moved away from San Francisco. We traded email frequently and talked regularly by phone. I would stay with him on my visits to the city. We would gossip about the characters in the Mycological Society or talk about bees, local beekeepers, and the beekeepers association. I can still hear his self-deprecating laugh as we retold stories of our shared adventures and misadventures with bees in such an exotic place as San Francisco.

Paul was an archetypal Finn. Although he was born in the Bay Area, both of his parents were Finnish from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and Paul would make a personal hajj to Houghton every summer to visit kinfolk. In the morning during my visits we would drink coffee out of his Finnish cups. He had a fondness for Finnish jokes featuring characters with names like Aino and Toivo. He had the proverbial taciturnity of a Finn, too, the kind of fellow, as the joke goes, who would look at your shoes instead of his own once he got to know you. Although he had been a school teacher, he was always uncomfortable speaking to groups. He was a tall, lanky guy, a former runner, who looked like he would blow away in a strong wind. I rarely saw him without his baseball cap; it was part of his being.

I remember our last meeting. It was the fall before he died, when I was back in San Francisco for a few days. I timed my visit to coincide with the very last gathering of the tertulia. The group had decided to stop meeting because time had so diminished the number of attendees: one of the early members had died, several others were in bad health, and I had moved away. To honor the group and mourn its end, one of the mainstays hosted a brunch for the remaining members. I had heard that Paul was ill, and I was afraid that he would not be able to attend. He did show up, though, but I was shocked to see how bad he looked. I think we both knew it would be the last time we saw each other. We hugged when we said goodbye.

Paul is not my only San Francisco friend who has died or is nearing the end of his life. Another fellow beekeeper, Joe, died right before I left San Francisco, as did Lew, a crusty old WWII pilot. So did Margaret, an elderly friend whom I visited and shared a drink almost every Sunday evening for five years after her husband died. She had no children, and she named me in her medical directive and durable power of attorney; I was also the executor of her estate. I felt honored at being asked. This spring, Marsha, who had hosted the tertulia brunch, died at age 92, and George, another old friend, died at age 90. George was one of the first people I met after I arrived in the City in the mid-70s, and we stayed friends for decades.

My point in this essay is about more than about my friendship with Paul and the others who touched my life in San Francisco. Their death reminds me of the inexorable flow of life. It is easy to forget that our connection with friends will inevitably end, perhaps sooner than we expect. Time always wins.

John Donne’s words capture a reality that is important to keep in mind, not just about friends, acquaintances, and relatives but about everyone: “Any man`s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” While the death of my friends has diminished me, our lives that we shared also have enriched me, and I carry their memories in my soul. I can still hear the words, “Paul here.”

We are all in this life together.