Kevin's Eulogy
From the funeral service in New York
On a bright summer day in late August 1978, in the glare of the afternoon sun in South Bend, a tall woman in blue corduroys and a white cotton shirt walked towards me with a smile that seemed as wide as the Grand Canyon and twice as deep. She extended her hand and introduced herself as Beth. My life was forever changed. One of the pillars of my life, one of the true foundations of who I was to become, had just walked into my life.
Beth was a force of nature. Her intensity was palpable, her manner disarmingly open and friendly. She gave everyone she met the same chance to be known to her - she did not judge or discriminate.
The fact that I was from California intrigued her - new worlds always intrigued Beth. And she intrigued me. To my West Coast, she was East Coast - the Hudson Valley and Nantucket, with a father who was an artist and a brother already at Notre Dame. My suburban southern California upbringing seemed so mundane in comparison.
Beth and I were inseparable for the first six weeks of school. It is remarkable to me that more than 20 years later so many images from that time continue to stick in my head. Early lessons learned from Beth that still apply: take joy from each day. Be open to everyone you meet. Arrange time in a day to be with friends for a meal or just some time together. And don't be afraid of work. In the first six weeks I knew her, Beth accomplished more than most people did in their first year of study: she worked every day in the dining hall clearing trays, decided she was headed to Innsbruck for a year abroad, changed her mind but was still determined to master German, declared her major in American Studies, switched jobs and started working in the Architecture library, camped out and scored football seats together for everyone she met in her first weeks at school (no mean feat, that). She even remembered my birthday eight weeks later.
Beth gave me a present in the dining hall. Nothing special -- a swiped dessert, a food services hat, and a homemade card full of references to things we shared those first few weeks. I kept that card and hat for years.
Beth touched more people than I can think of at Notre Dame. In a world controlled by the orbits of specific social circles, Beth transcended logic. She had, in astrological terms, what could be deemed a highly eccentric orbit. It was not subject to the laws that held other bodies, even greater and larger ones, in sway. I suppose you could say that my view was very medieval before I met Beth. The world moved in precise circles, according to pre-ordained paths and immutable laws.
But that was never the world that Beth knew. Hers was a departure from anything resembling circularity or certainty. I was too young to follow her then. We stayed in touch and friendly through our four years, and then went on our ways. She always held a special place in my heart since she was my first friend at university. But I was back to California, and she was off to see the world. We did not reconnect for four more years, until serendipitously we found ourselves blocks apart in the West Village.
By then, I could run with Beth. And run we did. We packed more life into our years together than most people experience in a lifetime. Every year we held a Christmas party jointly. These were more appropriately called bacchanalia. She even made us matching aprons with stylized Bacchus heads to wear while hosting.
But more than just experiences, Beth taught me about life, and how to live it. She encouraged me to dream and aspire, never simply to do. When I was most under fire, she would sneak into my apartment to work alchemy in the kitchen, with recipes cribbed from her years at DeMarco.
She had a unique philosophy when it came to cooking, one I think she applied to life in general?when possible, double all interesting ingredients. Bourbon balls became lethal asteroids of cocoa and whiskey, soups an indulgent savory bath of flavor. There is something about cooking that is magic. That magic is simply the love that the chef infuses into the ingredients. So with Beth, and the extent of her love, you must know that each meal was a feast, every party a banquet, because they were overwhelmed with her love. The nuances of the flavors she presented reflected the intricate connections of those she gathered about her.
The hardest part of leaving New York was leaving Beth. Frankly, had I thought that my temporary return to Los Angeles would turn permanent; I probably never would have left. But I did. So to ensure we stayed in touch, we made a compact. We actually wrote a contract - the last, best legal document I ever crafted. We agreed on a minimum of four visits per year - two on either coast. And, being Beth, we crafted in some exigencies. In the event the party of the first part decided she wanted to compel her visit someplace else and the party of the second part agreed, that was fine. So in that time we had weekends in London and three trips to Paris: one a long day walking in spring, another having lunch at the Palais Royale with her sister Cathy and the third a long weekend in Normandy with a trip to Omaha Beach and a long meditation on the Bayeaux Tapestry. Beth loved the world as much as she loved what it offered. She was moved to tears hiking the beauty of the narrows in Zion and among the hoodoos of Bryce. And she, Leslie and my family watched from Hawaii as Mars passed by.
We shared hard times too. The death of my sister Lark, which Beth exhorted me to think of as an exaltation to another world, rather than a loss in this one. And on 9/11 Beth, Jeff, my sister Diane and I watched in horror from California as the towers fell, literally crying in one another's arms when we heard Tom was safe.
I have no words to describe the last months Beth was with us (it is too raw), though we saw her frequently. I have no strength left in me to see how we, Beth's family and friends, will face the future. But she would want us to go on, and to know she is here. And somehow we will, because I know she is with us. I learned that in Nantucket last weekend.
After the world cracked last week and the sky fell, I lay in bed staring out the window on this past Monday morning. Beth always loved the morning light that flooded our house, and the interplay of shadows cast by the chandelier against the entrance hall. In fall and winter, the light is incredibly clear and very golden, especially in the morning and the afternoon.
Monday morning was no exception, and the light came flooding into my bedroom hitting the panes and casting a reflection, all white, on the ceiling. A vague shape of a diamond, it had a magnificent tail like a comet that streaked across the ceiling.
I knew that Beth was watching over me, and so I was able to get up. It made me realize the depth of her influence over us, the vortex of her being as it streaked through our lives, the magical inspiration of being in her eccentric orbit, the range and spread of her wake. Comets intrigue me, since they are more about dynamism and force (positive force) than anything else. They are completely unlike planets, which seem so fixed, so conservative. Comets blaze their own paths to glory, seemingly independent of the stars that hold them in thrall, and when visible, their appearance is known as an apparition. They are our harbingers and portents, reminders and talismen. They are also, sadly, evanescent. The important thing to remember is that they never leave us; they are simply transported out of our orbit for awhile. But they always return in some form.
Beth, to me, was like a comet. She taught me to follow my own path, irrespective of the seemingly established laws of whatever universe I chose to inhabit. She knew, and by her life example taught us, that all of us have a path, though it is not the same thing for all people. For some, travelers, like herself, they are mere guides. But regardless of the path she taught me this: that we must spend our days, not count them.
I think of Nantucket as the loveliest and saddest place on Earth. From it, Beth came to me at Notre Dame, and from there she left the Earth. She remains connected to me always, in so many ways. Her birthday is my son's, and her last day on this Earth my birthday. We are all of us through Beth inextricably entwined, spirits linked together, we walking this planet and she above, arms spread wide, holding us in place, a smile as wide and deep as the sky itself, holding us together with her love.