The Octet surprised Suerk with a concert three Saturdays ago. I have been tempted to write about it, but I wasn’t there and I wanted someone who was there to put the words together. Suerk’s thought was that one of the Octet members should write about it and now one has. Gilbert Rataezyk put this piece together for the Mercersburg News. Quite the dramatic tale, this one. The experience was dramatic for Suerk, too. Maybe “a shock” would be a better way to put it. Being in the condition he is, he finds refusal to be an element of control he relishes. He would have refused such a concert were he asked. So, instinctively, Richard Rotz decided not to ask. It was perfect. Suerk was on top of the world for days afterward, and he thanked us for not providing him the opportunity to refuse. The boys had a great audience in addition to the residents – Suerk’s friends, neighbors and cousins were invited to gather for the surprise. The praise for the concert the boys gave has been flowing steadily since. What a gift for all involved – especially for Suerk!
Here’s young Mr. Rataezyk’s piece for the Mercersburg News – in full.
The Octet gives back what Paul Suerken gave to Mercersburg
Paul Suerken was the musical director at Mercersburg from 1964 until his retirement and he made a footprint on the soul of Mercersburg throughout his 30 years at the Academy. Suerken was originally appointed as the musical director of the band as well as teacher of music theory and composition courses, but his influence beyond the music room was tremendous. As time passed, Suerken went on to teach English and coach the cross-country team: running with the students and keeping them motivated every day. “Suerk,” as he came to be known, also began something that Mercersburg could not have predicted would have such tremendous longevity. During his time as musical director, Suerk had seen male a cappella groups, singing in four and five part harmony without musical accompaniment, the type celebrated on college campuses across the country. This was the beginning of something new: Paul Suerken had a project. At the time, Mercersburg had a male vocal group, but nothing compared to what students were doing in college. “They would perform Broadway tunes with some song and dance,” Paul Suerken remarked. Suerk wished to bring something more to the community that would surpass Mercersburg’s male vocal group. That dream eventually turned into reality and a musical legacy, made up of eight different male singers each year: the Octet. After 30 years, Suerk retired from teaching but spent time each year coming back to see the school musicals. Unfortunately, three years ago, Suerk was in an accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down and confined to bed and he hasn’t been able to return to Mercersburg since he was moved to a nursing home in Erie. Richard Rotz, current Chorale, Band and Octet director, heard the news of Suerk. Rotz wished to bring him a bit of happiness since he had brought so much joy to Mercersburg. Rotz later explained to the Octet about Paul’s situation and the impact that he had made on Mercersburg and; together, they agreed to travel up to Erie during the Long Fall Weekend: to show Mercersburg’s appreciation and love by giving back to Suerk a taste of what he had started.
The trip began on a dark October afternoon. The rain was pouring and the group all seemed to be a bit under the weather. The boys packed into a Mercersburg van with their little bagged lunches and faithful companion, Mr. Rotz, and headed for Pittsburgh.
As the Octet drove toward Pittsburgh, each member tried to conserve energy as well as get back the energy lost due to the cold. The van eventually made it to Pittsburgh after stopping at truck stops to get snacks and chow down on lunch bags. Before the group turned in for the night to rest, the Octet stopped in the center of Pittsburgh to attend a concert of American composers: Aaron Copeland, Samuel Barber, and John Williams. The Octet sat eagerly to hear the six pieces lined up for the evening. The Pittsburgh Ochestra was fantastic, playing El Salón México, Overture to The School for Scandal, Adagio for Strings, and Medea’s Meditation and Dance of Vengence. After the intermission, the concert concluded with an abstract piece by John Williams, Concerto for Horn And Ochestra, with guest Horn player, William Caballero, and one of Aaron Copeland’s most famous pieces, Four Dance Episodes from Rodeo. All together, the Octet came out of the Concert Hall gleaming with joy.
After the performance, the Octet squeezed back into the Mercersburg van and tried to navigate the streets of Pittsburgh. After several minutes of loud boyish banter and teasing remarks, “We’ve already been here,” Rotz finally found his bearings and headed off to Dan Politoske’s apartment, an old friend of Rotz. Politoske and Rotz both attended Michigan at the same time: Rotz attending to receive his graduate degree while Politoske was getting his Ph. D. in Music Education and Theory. Rotz had told Politoske about their plans to travel up to Erie in order to sing for Paul Suerken. Politoske graciously opened up his apartment for the Octet on our journey to Erie.
Everyone awoke early next morning and headed towards Erie. After another few hours of recuperation and extended silence, the van pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home where Suerk lives. As soon as the Octet entered the building, they began looking for a room in which to warm up their voices after the long sleep. After a few minutes of vocal gymnastics and run-throughs, the boys tip-toed through the building to find Suerk. The Octet surprised Suerk as he was eating lunch by entering while singing a Mercersburg classic, De Animals.
“You should’ve seen his eyes. They just opened right up when he heard you boys sing,” said a close friend of Suerk’s who had been there to see the Octet sing for him.
The Octet was immediately surprised in return by Suerk’s liveliness. His spirit had surely not slacked since his last visit to the Academy over two years ago. He was always making jokes and laughing.
The Octet proceeded to sing several songs and, in between songs, Mr. Rotz spoke to Suerk about our trip up to Erie as well as to us about The role Suerken played at Mercersburg. Once the performance was over, the numerous friends and relatives who had come to see the Octet sing for Suerk gathered around for some group pictures.
At last, the journey was over and the group turned back toward Mercersburg. As the Octet left the nursing home, the boys came out with a new appreciation for singing. The clouds had parted and the boys had stepped out from under the weather. All seemed right. That day, Paul Suerken had become someone to remember for each member of the Octet. Surely, Suerk won’t be forgotten by the many people he has touched and the legacy that lives through year spent by these Octet members singing and the other hundrends of boys that have sung in the Octet. The Octet will forever be giving back what Paul Suerken has given to Mercersburg.
17 November 2009
01 November 2009
An Elderly Quadriplegic
Suerk reports that a rather daft nursing home aid asked him what he planned on being for Halloween. His reply? "An elderly quadriplegic." To which she responded, "Oh really? What's that?"
27 September 2009
He Gave Me The Keys
When I read the 11 September posting to Suerk, he reiterated with clarity something he'd attempted to put into words once before. I wrote it down. Here's what he said.
Anyone who knew Jim Smith well has random memories that are funny, absurd, and like his life itself, contradictory. Ask someone like me who loved Jim deeply, and you will get an unending parade of humor, tenderness, joy and passion. One only has to look at his wife, Carol, and their three children to get the nature and scope of this great man.
I miss my faithful, loving friend.
Suerk's dear friend Kitty Whitty wrote me yesterday to share a piece Jo Schlegel wrote to honor Jim. Here is Kitty's introduction to Jo's words. Suerk would want me to share this with all who follow the blog.
From Kitty:
Jo Schlegel recently posted a tribute to Jim Smith she wrote on Facebook. It is beautiful. I share it here and hope you will share it with Suerk. Some of the details are different, of course, but this is exactly the way I feel about Suerk and Jay Quinn. They 'gave me the keys.'
From Jo Schlegel:
Jim Smith gave me the keys.
Jim entrusted me with keys to big, heavy doors, large wooden crates, backstage rooms, and secret entrances to Gothic structures. I could steal away at almost any hour to hack through some massive toccata and fugue at the organ in the Chapel. Or, at the grand piano on stage in Boone Hall, I could end a disciplined practice session by sight-reading some Rachmaninoff prelude audaciously, extemporaneously (in the sense of having no regard for the metronome), and with preposterous fingering. And why not: the ghost light was there to shoo away any imaginary detractors and other bogeymen. Alone and undisturbed in these dimly lit performance spaces, I was free to contemplate a life in music – even as whatever noise I had just presumed to make reverberated through the gigantic hall. Spend even a little time practicing under those conditions and you realize there’s no point having the keys or sitting at the keyboard unless you intend to make echoes you and the ghosts can stand to listen to. No one else has given me that kind of space. Only Jim Smith.
A life in music, or a life without music. “Do, or do not. There is no try.” Sure, it holds: Jim was my Yoda. If only he could have lived nine hundred years.
Our nickname for him was Schmutley. Hannah and Sarah may not remember, but the class of ’81 had an embarrassment of riches in two inimitable imitators: Nick Fuhrman (who I understand makes a great Watergate Caesar salad) and Alex Iden, the Click and Clack of Marshall and Irving. Greet either declamation legend with a curt clearing of the throat, a la Walter Burgin, and one could be treated to a commercial-free marathon of all thirteen episodes of their Emmy-winning Season One, each beginning with the signature line, “Ahem. We. Begin. Again.” No faculty member, fac brat (including Ted Smith), or dining hall worker was sacrosanct (“Breakfast is over, you’re going to have to go sit in the alcove, I’m going to have to tell Mr. Hoppe”), and the legend built up to a command performance at a school assembly. What I wouldn’t give to have that material on DVD.
Walter, as headmaster, was a natural touchstone; the cough became a sort of class greeting. But it was Schmutley who provided some of the richest material for Alex and Nick’s schtick. Alex could conjure up James Winston Smith with a slumped shoulder and an asymmetrical, wrenched smile that would instantly remind me of wry critiques of choral entrances, deliberate mispronunciations and malapropisms, and Jim’s protective yet storied relationship with Bryan Barker. (Yes, there were impressions of Bryan.) It got kind of meta when Jim started doing Alex’s impression of Jim, so you’d get this exaggerated snarl of a smile. That’s when you knew he really cared.
Bryan was still the school’s carillonneur in those years, playing brilliantly from memory, quoting Byron verbatim. But he was also starting to drive through brick walls and ring in jubilant Easter mornings in the middle of the night in Lent. Jim confided in me that there just weren’t that many carillonneurs, so he figured he would learn. Indeed, I could hear Jim practicing up in the tower once in a while when I was in the Chapel, and seem to remember climbing up into the tower to watch one of them play. It was like something out of a P.D. James mystery.
Many of my piano lessons were in the house on Seminary Street, and there was always some creature or another passing through that beautiful room – tow-headed toddlers, older brothers, small dogs, and sundry Winebrenners and their derivatives. In my fact-challenged memory the piano is made of mahogany, sits on museum-quality oriental rugs, and is surrounded by custom-built bookshelves crammed with first editions. The dogs are in love with the furniture.
I sang in the chorale and the madrigal singers, and participated in Wednesday chapel services. Jim started the women’s ensemble while I was a student. I remember some repertoire: Liebeslieder Waltzer; Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols; Jim’s Happy Birthday arrangement (which I recently found); Jim’s composition “Surely the Lord Is In This Place,” which I’d love to have if it’s been preserved; trying to sing “I Know that My Redeemer Liveth” at the Easter sunrise service. I remember not wanting to sing the final verse of “The Times They Are A Changin’ “ at baccalaureate because it seemed disrespectful of parents. I remember lots of madrigals in various languages. I remember a trip to the outskirts of Baltimore for some kind of singing pageant that seems to have lasted several weeks although I’m sure it was just a weekend; and the unforgettable powder-blue polyester dress with the six-inch ruffle collar that passed for concert attire. Very Karen Carpenter. It was also that weekend that I learned the term “swing choir.”
Jim was that compassionate taskmaster who held people to their highest expectations of themselves – not out of compulsion, but out of respect for people’s talents. Jim embodied the school’s ideal of “integritas” by inspiring people to be true to themselves. It wasn’t about enforcing major school rules; it was about fulfilling your potential. There was never any question whether you would. Jim, where were you when I needed you in college, surrounded by people who are now household names?
He gave me the keys. They opened doors to vast spaces, architecturally inspired, acoustically brilliant, inhabited by great minds and musicians of our time. Majestic spaces accessed not through grand entrances but through back doors, stage doors, performers’ entrances, passageways to stages and choir lofts and balconies and towers. Iron gates and steam tunnels at Yale. At Trinity Church in Boston, the stairs behind the choir loft which led to the then-unfinished undercroft, past some cats and boxes of archives, up into a small restroom, out into the vestibule and up into the back balcony, from which I would magically appear to sing little solos at Candlelight Carol Services over the years. The stage door at Symphony Hall, where a security guard buzzes you in to a heavily painted basement passageway that smells like the cleaning fluid they used to use in elementary schools. The Shed at Tanglewood, with its industrial concrete backstage area that seems like an unlikely aesthetic in which to meet Bryn Terfel or Andre Previn or Christopher Plummer or my husband. At Carnegie Hall, where you enter on 56th Street, show a badge, and take a service elevator to a top floor for warmup; then wend your way down many staircases, action movie style, to enter stage right and look up, suddenly breathless at the reality of where you are and who’s there with you. Even stage entrances to places like the KKL Luzern or the Royal Albert Hall, where you might meet Kenneth Branagh in line for coffee. The view from the risers, in whatever venue – maestro’s face; the soloists’ backs. Seiji’s kinesthetic genius – the way he gives cues with his pinky, his hair, his tongue. Levine’s way of coaxing great singing out of people without ever making them feel tense. Even the informal spaces, the chapels at vacation spots, the outdoor performances, the gatherings around pianos, the sendups and parodies. Jim gave me the keys.
A life with music. And the space in which to contemplate what sorts of echoes the ghosts might enjoy. Because if you’re going to spend all that time in all that space, you might as well make a decent sound.
Anyone who knew Jim Smith well has random memories that are funny, absurd, and like his life itself, contradictory. Ask someone like me who loved Jim deeply, and you will get an unending parade of humor, tenderness, joy and passion. One only has to look at his wife, Carol, and their three children to get the nature and scope of this great man.
I miss my faithful, loving friend.
Suerk's dear friend Kitty Whitty wrote me yesterday to share a piece Jo Schlegel wrote to honor Jim. Here is Kitty's introduction to Jo's words. Suerk would want me to share this with all who follow the blog.
From Kitty:
Jo Schlegel recently posted a tribute to Jim Smith she wrote on Facebook. It is beautiful. I share it here and hope you will share it with Suerk. Some of the details are different, of course, but this is exactly the way I feel about Suerk and Jay Quinn. They 'gave me the keys.'
From Jo Schlegel:
Jim Smith gave me the keys.
Jim entrusted me with keys to big, heavy doors, large wooden crates, backstage rooms, and secret entrances to Gothic structures. I could steal away at almost any hour to hack through some massive toccata and fugue at the organ in the Chapel. Or, at the grand piano on stage in Boone Hall, I could end a disciplined practice session by sight-reading some Rachmaninoff prelude audaciously, extemporaneously (in the sense of having no regard for the metronome), and with preposterous fingering. And why not: the ghost light was there to shoo away any imaginary detractors and other bogeymen. Alone and undisturbed in these dimly lit performance spaces, I was free to contemplate a life in music – even as whatever noise I had just presumed to make reverberated through the gigantic hall. Spend even a little time practicing under those conditions and you realize there’s no point having the keys or sitting at the keyboard unless you intend to make echoes you and the ghosts can stand to listen to. No one else has given me that kind of space. Only Jim Smith.
A life in music, or a life without music. “Do, or do not. There is no try.” Sure, it holds: Jim was my Yoda. If only he could have lived nine hundred years.
Our nickname for him was Schmutley. Hannah and Sarah may not remember, but the class of ’81 had an embarrassment of riches in two inimitable imitators: Nick Fuhrman (who I understand makes a great Watergate Caesar salad) and Alex Iden, the Click and Clack of Marshall and Irving. Greet either declamation legend with a curt clearing of the throat, a la Walter Burgin, and one could be treated to a commercial-free marathon of all thirteen episodes of their Emmy-winning Season One, each beginning with the signature line, “Ahem. We. Begin. Again.” No faculty member, fac brat (including Ted Smith), or dining hall worker was sacrosanct (“Breakfast is over, you’re going to have to go sit in the alcove, I’m going to have to tell Mr. Hoppe”), and the legend built up to a command performance at a school assembly. What I wouldn’t give to have that material on DVD.
Walter, as headmaster, was a natural touchstone; the cough became a sort of class greeting. But it was Schmutley who provided some of the richest material for Alex and Nick’s schtick. Alex could conjure up James Winston Smith with a slumped shoulder and an asymmetrical, wrenched smile that would instantly remind me of wry critiques of choral entrances, deliberate mispronunciations and malapropisms, and Jim’s protective yet storied relationship with Bryan Barker. (Yes, there were impressions of Bryan.) It got kind of meta when Jim started doing Alex’s impression of Jim, so you’d get this exaggerated snarl of a smile. That’s when you knew he really cared.
Bryan was still the school’s carillonneur in those years, playing brilliantly from memory, quoting Byron verbatim. But he was also starting to drive through brick walls and ring in jubilant Easter mornings in the middle of the night in Lent. Jim confided in me that there just weren’t that many carillonneurs, so he figured he would learn. Indeed, I could hear Jim practicing up in the tower once in a while when I was in the Chapel, and seem to remember climbing up into the tower to watch one of them play. It was like something out of a P.D. James mystery.
Many of my piano lessons were in the house on Seminary Street, and there was always some creature or another passing through that beautiful room – tow-headed toddlers, older brothers, small dogs, and sundry Winebrenners and their derivatives. In my fact-challenged memory the piano is made of mahogany, sits on museum-quality oriental rugs, and is surrounded by custom-built bookshelves crammed with first editions. The dogs are in love with the furniture.
I sang in the chorale and the madrigal singers, and participated in Wednesday chapel services. Jim started the women’s ensemble while I was a student. I remember some repertoire: Liebeslieder Waltzer; Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols; Jim’s Happy Birthday arrangement (which I recently found); Jim’s composition “Surely the Lord Is In This Place,” which I’d love to have if it’s been preserved; trying to sing “I Know that My Redeemer Liveth” at the Easter sunrise service. I remember not wanting to sing the final verse of “The Times They Are A Changin’ “ at baccalaureate because it seemed disrespectful of parents. I remember lots of madrigals in various languages. I remember a trip to the outskirts of Baltimore for some kind of singing pageant that seems to have lasted several weeks although I’m sure it was just a weekend; and the unforgettable powder-blue polyester dress with the six-inch ruffle collar that passed for concert attire. Very Karen Carpenter. It was also that weekend that I learned the term “swing choir.”
Jim was that compassionate taskmaster who held people to their highest expectations of themselves – not out of compulsion, but out of respect for people’s talents. Jim embodied the school’s ideal of “integritas” by inspiring people to be true to themselves. It wasn’t about enforcing major school rules; it was about fulfilling your potential. There was never any question whether you would. Jim, where were you when I needed you in college, surrounded by people who are now household names?
He gave me the keys. They opened doors to vast spaces, architecturally inspired, acoustically brilliant, inhabited by great minds and musicians of our time. Majestic spaces accessed not through grand entrances but through back doors, stage doors, performers’ entrances, passageways to stages and choir lofts and balconies and towers. Iron gates and steam tunnels at Yale. At Trinity Church in Boston, the stairs behind the choir loft which led to the then-unfinished undercroft, past some cats and boxes of archives, up into a small restroom, out into the vestibule and up into the back balcony, from which I would magically appear to sing little solos at Candlelight Carol Services over the years. The stage door at Symphony Hall, where a security guard buzzes you in to a heavily painted basement passageway that smells like the cleaning fluid they used to use in elementary schools. The Shed at Tanglewood, with its industrial concrete backstage area that seems like an unlikely aesthetic in which to meet Bryn Terfel or Andre Previn or Christopher Plummer or my husband. At Carnegie Hall, where you enter on 56th Street, show a badge, and take a service elevator to a top floor for warmup; then wend your way down many staircases, action movie style, to enter stage right and look up, suddenly breathless at the reality of where you are and who’s there with you. Even stage entrances to places like the KKL Luzern or the Royal Albert Hall, where you might meet Kenneth Branagh in line for coffee. The view from the risers, in whatever venue – maestro’s face; the soloists’ backs. Seiji’s kinesthetic genius – the way he gives cues with his pinky, his hair, his tongue. Levine’s way of coaxing great singing out of people without ever making them feel tense. Even the informal spaces, the chapels at vacation spots, the outdoor performances, the gatherings around pianos, the sendups and parodies. Jim gave me the keys.
A life with music. And the space in which to contemplate what sorts of echoes the ghosts might enjoy. Because if you’re going to spend all that time in all that space, you might as well make a decent sound.
11 September 2009
Jim Smith
Suerk had intended to dictate some words regarding the loss of his friend Jim Smith. He has stopped suggesting he wants to offer the words, and after encouraging him for a two weeks, I have stopped encouraging him. He is simply unable. Larry Jones will see to it that Suerk receives a recording of Jim’s memorial service. Suerk is looking forward to hearing the words others use to honor Jim, and especially looking forward to hearing the good music that honors all who are able to attend the service. In lieu of Suerk’s words, here’s Jim’s obituary.
James Winston Smith
James Winston Smith, 70, former member of the Mercersburg Academy faculty, died peacefully in his home the evening of August 20, 2009.
Born in Baltimore, Maryland on May 11, 1939, he was the son of Helen Tilghman Smith and James Winston Smith. He grew up in College Park and Laurel, Maryland.
A graduate of High Point High School in Beltsville, Maryland, he graduated from the University of Maryland and Westminster Choir College in Princeton, New Jersey, where he earned a Master’s in Music.
He began his music career at St. Mark’s School in Dallas, Texas, before coming to the Mercersburg Academy in 1965.
During his 36 year tenure at the Academy he served as teacher, organist, choirmaster and choral director. He was Head of the Fine Arts Department for five years and developed the Mercersburg Academy Chorale and Woman’s Ensemble. He was also a longtime member of the American Guild of Organists.
In 1981 he was appointed the Academy’s carillonneur. He played the bells nationally and internationally, ultimately achieving status as a Carillonneur Member with the Guild of Carillonneurs of North America.
In 2008 he was honored with the dedication of the James W. Smith Memorial Bell, the final bell in the Academy chapel’s 50-bell carillon.
Mr. Smith was very active in the local community. He was a longtime member of the Franklin County Heritage Society, helped create the Historic District in Mercersburg and served as President of Mercersburg’s Borough Council for many years.
Surviving are his wife, Carol; a brother, Winslow; a son, Ted; two daughters, Hannah and Sarah; and four grandchildren.
A memorial Service will be held Saturday, September 12 at the Mercersburg Academy Chapel at 2 p.m.
In lieu of flowers, donations can be directed to the Mercersburg Academy, c/o The James W. Smith Memorial Fund, 300 E. Seminary Street, Mercersburg, PA 17236
22 August 2009
From Don Hill
Ron Simar, David Tyson, and I met Matt and Stephen at the Suerken home in Erie the weekend of August 15. The primary purpose was to see and visit with Suerk, of course ... something I lacked the courage to do earlier. We also came to help them in the ongoing process of getting the house in shape for Paul to come home (if that is possible) or to be sold. By the time we arrived, Matt and Stephen had discovered the house had been broken into and burglarized, something Matt can report on better than I. He spent most of Friday and Saturday with police, a worthwhile investment of
time, as the culprit has been caught as well as most of the stolen merchandise. The downside ... not much got done on the house.
Paul's state of mind amazes me ... I'd like to believe it is constant, but can't help thinking he simply rises to the occasion for every visitor. He has long known how to do this. He resists prompting about the status of the Tribe, a painful subject this year. He can't hear enough about old friends and their families. He asks about everybody, by name, and he does a helluva lot better with the names than I do. If you don't look under the covers, he looks great ... has lost a lot of weight, but he had also gained a lot of weight before the fall; net effect - he looks like Suerk, better than right before the fall. And when he smiles, which is often, you know for sure who you're talking to. What makes him smile? Send news about yourself and your mutual friends. He devours it. Send it to Matt (forpaulsuerken@gmail.com). Matt talks to Paul daily, and he'll pass it along. Another thing ... give him a head rub; Ron will show you how.
A number of Suerk's neighbors came over when they saw cars in the driveway. These are good people; the lady directly across the street has done yeoman's work, voluntarily cleaning the interior of the house up after it had sat idle for so long. Another family put Matt and Stephen up for the weekend. Matt has learned more about Medicare and Medicaid than any 41 yr-old should know; he has also engaged a crackerjack elder-law attorney to make sure Paul gets every benefit he can.
The downside ... Paul is in a nursing home. If there is any intellectual stimulation in the place, it is not happening near him. None of the patients who sit in wheelchairs in the hallways seem to have a cogent thought. It is not a rehabilitation facility, it is a nursing home. The nurses adore him ( and one has to admire them immensely, too, for what they do ), of course; they don't see many patients with whom they can have meaningful discourse. They also baby him a bit ... they keep a small supply of beer for him in a fridge at the nurse's station. They help him use his Ipod and cellphone when they can, but reading or surfing the net are not things he is doing... and he indicates he is OK with this. There is little space in his half of the room to make those things happen, even if the right equipment existed. He tires pretty fast, so long periods of concentration would probably be difficult for him anyway. The thing I noticed about the nursing home is something Matt mentioned in an earlier blog...it is very clean, and it doesn't have the urine smell that seems to permeate most places like that. He has a good appetite and the food appears to be passable. It is probably also very predictable... I'd like to get a good meal shipped to him once in a while, even fast food, just for variety.
The Suerken humor is also still alive and well... the nurses like it, even when it goes over their heads. Paul doesn't lack for visitors, but he would welcome more, I know. It would be a very unhappy site, if you were to do so... except for Paul. He doesn't feel sorry for himself, and he makes certain, just by the force of his personality, that you don't feel sorry for him either. I won't wait so long before going back.
Don Hill
time, as the culprit has been caught as well as most of the stolen merchandise. The downside ... not much got done on the house.
Paul's state of mind amazes me ... I'd like to believe it is constant, but can't help thinking he simply rises to the occasion for every visitor. He has long known how to do this. He resists prompting about the status of the Tribe, a painful subject this year. He can't hear enough about old friends and their families. He asks about everybody, by name, and he does a helluva lot better with the names than I do. If you don't look under the covers, he looks great ... has lost a lot of weight, but he had also gained a lot of weight before the fall; net effect - he looks like Suerk, better than right before the fall. And when he smiles, which is often, you know for sure who you're talking to. What makes him smile? Send news about yourself and your mutual friends. He devours it. Send it to Matt (forpaulsuerken@gmail.com). Matt talks to Paul daily, and he'll pass it along. Another thing ... give him a head rub; Ron will show you how.
A number of Suerk's neighbors came over when they saw cars in the driveway. These are good people; the lady directly across the street has done yeoman's work, voluntarily cleaning the interior of the house up after it had sat idle for so long. Another family put Matt and Stephen up for the weekend. Matt has learned more about Medicare and Medicaid than any 41 yr-old should know; he has also engaged a crackerjack elder-law attorney to make sure Paul gets every benefit he can.
The downside ... Paul is in a nursing home. If there is any intellectual stimulation in the place, it is not happening near him. None of the patients who sit in wheelchairs in the hallways seem to have a cogent thought. It is not a rehabilitation facility, it is a nursing home. The nurses adore him ( and one has to admire them immensely, too, for what they do ), of course; they don't see many patients with whom they can have meaningful discourse. They also baby him a bit ... they keep a small supply of beer for him in a fridge at the nurse's station. They help him use his Ipod and cellphone when they can, but reading or surfing the net are not things he is doing... and he indicates he is OK with this. There is little space in his half of the room to make those things happen, even if the right equipment existed. He tires pretty fast, so long periods of concentration would probably be difficult for him anyway. The thing I noticed about the nursing home is something Matt mentioned in an earlier blog...it is very clean, and it doesn't have the urine smell that seems to permeate most places like that. He has a good appetite and the food appears to be passable. It is probably also very predictable... I'd like to get a good meal shipped to him once in a while, even fast food, just for variety.
The Suerken humor is also still alive and well... the nurses like it, even when it goes over their heads. Paul doesn't lack for visitors, but he would welcome more, I know. It would be a very unhappy site, if you were to do so... except for Paul. He doesn't feel sorry for himself, and he makes certain, just by the force of his personality, that you don't feel sorry for him either. I won't wait so long before going back.
Don Hill
01 August 2009
Visitors
Suerk's roommate and best friend from Dartmouth College, Ed Johanson, flew up to Erie last week. On the heals of that visit, Andy Crago (Mercersburg class of '67) flew to Pittsburgh on his way to visit family and detoured through Erie. Stephen and I will fly up on the 14th of August to meet with Suerk's attorney and work on the house. That same weekend, my dad and Don Hill will drive up with a group of current and former faculty from the School. Suerk is thrilled. He claims not to enjoy being the center of attention, but he doesn't really have a choice.
08 July 2009
Mike Stanford's Letter to Suerk
After turning in my assignments we settled into a weekend of visiting. We watched lots of Indians baseball -- including a seven run, 9th inning come-from-behind victory over Tampa. Suerk levitated. I visited with his friends, cooked out with his amazing Cohen cousins and worked on getting the house on Hilltop Road back into shape -- an ongoing project.
The words I used in the June entry regarding Suerk's having "taken to the bed" have taken many people aback. I make it a point to discuss the issue as often as possible during our daily talks. Suerk points out that the 'rehab/therapy' really wasn't rehabilitating anything. His paralysis is permanent. And more importantly, though he is a 'quad,' Suerk has a tremendous amount of feeling from the chest up. Even the slightest physical manipulation causes him tremendous pain -- neuropathy. He does not like to be moved. So for now he has in fact taken to the bed.
Today, on the first anniversary of the fall in his kitchen on 8 July 2008, I can say with certainty that Suerk looks forward to each new day. He has an amazing ability to compartmentalize that which causes him emotional pain. And he is sustained by the outpouring of love and appreciation that his friends and students have shared over the months. Here is one letter that goes a long way in helping to sustain him.
Paul
There's no reason at all you should remember me, out of the thousands of students you taught, but this is Mike Stanford. I took sophomore English from you at Mercersburg in 1968-9. Short, pretty nerdish, glasses, not too popular. If that helps.
I discovered my lifelong intellectual passion--poetry--in your class, as you led us through Perrine's anthology Sound and Sense. I still remember some of the comments you jotted in the margin of my papers. For example, "Don't flaunt erudition," after I'd quoted an obscure poem by Hilaire Belloc just to impress you with my 15-year-old brilliance. You were impatient with all pretension and sloppy thinking. But ultimately I did very well in your class. Your praise made me believe I would grow into a writer and a scholar.
I have an indelible memory of the way you led the class--*conducted* it, really--your arms raised, gesturing, your whole body visibly vibrating with your joy in the works you were leading us through.
Your influence certainly followed me, after I left Mercersburg, went on to graduate from another prep school, then served three years in the Marines, graduated from Duke where I wrote a lot of poems and edited the literary magazine. I worked for a couple of years in publishing in New York, then moved to Charlottesville and took a PhD in English at UVA. I wound up teaching humanities at the university level for 19 years, then got restless and went to law school in my spare time, becoming a lawyer at the age of 53. I'm currently a public defender in Phoenix, of all unlikely places.
You seemed to believe in my literary talent so much that I've always hesitated to get in touch with you because my writing career never really took off--I published some poems in my twenties, a handful of scholarly articles in my thirties, But just last week I learned that my first book--an anthology of poems about the law, by writers from Chaucer to the present--had been accepted by University of Iowa Press. I have another book--a critical study based on the anthology--underway. And I’m noodling around with some more creative stuff based on my day job as a lawyer. So your influence has rippled forward to inspire me with some late-in-life ambitions. Rather, I guess, like your taking up marathon running after reaching 40.
Two days ago I thought to Google you and was saddened to learn of your accident. At the same time I was struck though not surprised by the outpouring of love and support you've received. At this point in my life I've taught thousands of students myself, but I can't imagine that I've made as deep an impression as you have.
One day in class you read Tennyson's "Ulysses" and then turned to me and said, "Did you like it, Mike?" At the time I was a little embarrassed to be singled out, but later felt nothing but fortified by your gift of those lines. You're a tremendous teacher, Paul, and a fine man. You continue to inspire us all--to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
with deep affection and respect
Mike Stanford
The words I used in the June entry regarding Suerk's having "taken to the bed" have taken many people aback. I make it a point to discuss the issue as often as possible during our daily talks. Suerk points out that the 'rehab/therapy' really wasn't rehabilitating anything. His paralysis is permanent. And more importantly, though he is a 'quad,' Suerk has a tremendous amount of feeling from the chest up. Even the slightest physical manipulation causes him tremendous pain -- neuropathy. He does not like to be moved. So for now he has in fact taken to the bed.
Today, on the first anniversary of the fall in his kitchen on 8 July 2008, I can say with certainty that Suerk looks forward to each new day. He has an amazing ability to compartmentalize that which causes him emotional pain. And he is sustained by the outpouring of love and appreciation that his friends and students have shared over the months. Here is one letter that goes a long way in helping to sustain him.
Paul
There's no reason at all you should remember me, out of the thousands of students you taught, but this is Mike Stanford. I took sophomore English from you at Mercersburg in 1968-9. Short, pretty nerdish, glasses, not too popular. If that helps.
I discovered my lifelong intellectual passion--poetry--in your class, as you led us through Perrine's anthology Sound and Sense. I still remember some of the comments you jotted in the margin of my papers. For example, "Don't flaunt erudition," after I'd quoted an obscure poem by Hilaire Belloc just to impress you with my 15-year-old brilliance. You were impatient with all pretension and sloppy thinking. But ultimately I did very well in your class. Your praise made me believe I would grow into a writer and a scholar.
I have an indelible memory of the way you led the class--*conducted* it, really--your arms raised, gesturing, your whole body visibly vibrating with your joy in the works you were leading us through.
Your influence certainly followed me, after I left Mercersburg, went on to graduate from another prep school, then served three years in the Marines, graduated from Duke where I wrote a lot of poems and edited the literary magazine. I worked for a couple of years in publishing in New York, then moved to Charlottesville and took a PhD in English at UVA. I wound up teaching humanities at the university level for 19 years, then got restless and went to law school in my spare time, becoming a lawyer at the age of 53. I'm currently a public defender in Phoenix, of all unlikely places.
You seemed to believe in my literary talent so much that I've always hesitated to get in touch with you because my writing career never really took off--I published some poems in my twenties, a handful of scholarly articles in my thirties, But just last week I learned that my first book--an anthology of poems about the law, by writers from Chaucer to the present--had been accepted by University of Iowa Press. I have another book--a critical study based on the anthology--underway. And I’m noodling around with some more creative stuff based on my day job as a lawyer. So your influence has rippled forward to inspire me with some late-in-life ambitions. Rather, I guess, like your taking up marathon running after reaching 40.
Two days ago I thought to Google you and was saddened to learn of your accident. At the same time I was struck though not surprised by the outpouring of love and support you've received. At this point in my life I've taught thousands of students myself, but I can't imagine that I've made as deep an impression as you have.
One day in class you read Tennyson's "Ulysses" and then turned to me and said, "Did you like it, Mike?" At the time I was a little embarrassed to be singled out, but later felt nothing but fortified by your gift of those lines. You're a tremendous teacher, Paul, and a fine man. You continue to inspire us all--to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
with deep affection and respect
Mike Stanford
18 June 2009
Memorial Day Weekend
There's not a lot to say about how I found Suerk Memorial Day weekend. Physically, he's almost the same as he was the last time I saw him. The difference is, he's less mobile than he was. He was hardly mobile last time I saw him, but now less so. Before, he was turning his head more, shrugging his shoulders. His arms moved more. His hands and fingers looked swolen, but normal. Now his neck is stiff. He turns his eyes, but not his head. His hands and arms are stiffly curled up under the covers. No more motion there. He refuses all opportunities to move. By that I mean he does not participate in physical therapy -- mostly stretching. He will not leave the bed. The nurses plead with him, informing him regularly, "We are 'designed' to be upright," and that, "For two hours a day, at least, you need to be sitting in a chair." Nothing doing! I have asked him how I should explain to friends that he has 'taken to the bed,' not engaging outside his 100 square feet of space. He says, "Tell them I love the bed." When I say, "I cannot do that because I know it's not true," he says, "Let's not go there now." So there it is.
As ever, mentally, he's still 'all there.' There were some things he asked me to bring, and he wanted to get down to business before I could pull up a chair. First, he'd been exasperated because he thought there was one cast member from Godspell whom he could not remember. This is something he'd been wrestling with for more than a week before my visit. With the help of Susan Simar and Shirley Zeger, I presented him the program from 1978. He scanned it quickly, realizing he'd only imagined the missing cast member. His mental list was totally complete. And when his eyes reached the names and photos of John Swing and Kitty Whitty on the program, he wept openly, reading their names aloud, tears freely streaming.
Then he wanted me to hold up the lyrics from Jerome Kern's, "Roberta's," "Let's Begin." So I pulled that out of my bookbag as directed. He worked through those lyrics with a kind of vengeance, pounding them out like he would do during Octet rehearsals, with an exaggerated emphasis on the rhythm. He explained why he'd asked me to bring those lyrics with me. As a young kid, he went with his parents to State College to visit brother Chuck and to attend a play. During intermission, when everyone else walked, milled and conversed, he sat alone, mesmerized while the band played "Let's Begin." It was the first time he'd heard that kind of rhythm played, and with a symbol. What had caused his intense desire to hear the piece was a 'missing beat' on the little, battery powered clock on the wall at the foot of his bed. The rhythm of the clock evoked that memory from his childhood. He hears the song as the clock beats, but didn't have the proper lyrics to go with it. Mission accomplished.
Finally, within the first minutes of the visit, he asked me to produce a copy of the letter that Mike Stanford had written him. After seeing it in print for the first time (I'd read it to him more than once), he asked that I tack it to his corkboard, facing the wall. He did not want to flaunt the letter to everyone who walked in the room, but he wanted it there, to know that it was there, and perhaps to show it to someone special should the opportunity present itself.
More on my visit later, along with a copy of Mike Stanford's letter.
As ever, mentally, he's still 'all there.' There were some things he asked me to bring, and he wanted to get down to business before I could pull up a chair. First, he'd been exasperated because he thought there was one cast member from Godspell whom he could not remember. This is something he'd been wrestling with for more than a week before my visit. With the help of Susan Simar and Shirley Zeger, I presented him the program from 1978. He scanned it quickly, realizing he'd only imagined the missing cast member. His mental list was totally complete. And when his eyes reached the names and photos of John Swing and Kitty Whitty on the program, he wept openly, reading their names aloud, tears freely streaming.
Then he wanted me to hold up the lyrics from Jerome Kern's, "Roberta's," "Let's Begin." So I pulled that out of my bookbag as directed. He worked through those lyrics with a kind of vengeance, pounding them out like he would do during Octet rehearsals, with an exaggerated emphasis on the rhythm. He explained why he'd asked me to bring those lyrics with me. As a young kid, he went with his parents to State College to visit brother Chuck and to attend a play. During intermission, when everyone else walked, milled and conversed, he sat alone, mesmerized while the band played "Let's Begin." It was the first time he'd heard that kind of rhythm played, and with a symbol. What had caused his intense desire to hear the piece was a 'missing beat' on the little, battery powered clock on the wall at the foot of his bed. The rhythm of the clock evoked that memory from his childhood. He hears the song as the clock beats, but didn't have the proper lyrics to go with it. Mission accomplished.
Finally, within the first minutes of the visit, he asked me to produce a copy of the letter that Mike Stanford had written him. After seeing it in print for the first time (I'd read it to him more than once), he asked that I tack it to his corkboard, facing the wall. He did not want to flaunt the letter to everyone who walked in the room, but he wanted it there, to know that it was there, and perhaps to show it to someone special should the opportunity present itself.
More on my visit later, along with a copy of Mike Stanford's letter.
20 May 2009
Shawn Meyers to Serve on Bench
Suerk is overjoyed with the news that his friend and former student, Shawn Meyers (class of '86), will be serving on the bench of the Franklin/Fulton County Court of Common Pleas.
Here are two links.
Meyers for Judge
Meyers Victory
Here are two links.
Meyers for Judge
Meyers Victory
05 May 2009
Baseball
The carillon in the chapel at Mercersburg is a stunningly grand instrument, not just because of the building it sits atop, but mostly because of the power of its sound and the broad reach the sound achieves -- all over the campus and through much of the town. It was back in the 80's when I was first exposed to the traditional sound that instrument made. Mr. Smith brought the bells to life for every big occasion on campus, and lots of small ones too -- the music always fitting for the original intention of the instrument in a way Bryan Barker would have approved. But each spring, on the hour, the day, and on the minute of the first pitch of that day’s first game of the official start of baseball season, Paul Suerken would engage those bells in a far more secular way than we were used to hearing, pounding out, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” And he would repeat, and repeat, and repeat with ever-growing permutations and flourishes, the song that spoke to him spiritually, and to his core. No one around could possibly miss hearing it.
Baseball has almost always been a huge part of Suerk’s life. When he was a kid, it was a girl named Lucille who was the best little baseball player in the Lakewood neighborhood of Erie where the Suerkens lived. They were great friends, Lucille and Suerk. Lucille’s parents were from Cleveland and they loved the Indians. That’s how his obsession with the Tribe started. But it was the summer of 1948 when Suerk was ten, his devotion to the Indians was sealed for life. That August, one of the neighborhood’s dads bought a block of seats seven rows behind home plate and took the whole group of kids Suerk played with to Cleveland for a game. Later that fall, ten-year-old Suerk was glued to a radio, following every move of the Indians' triumphant march to the Pennant, sometimes skipping school to do it. And it was in that fall of ’48 that the Indians won the World Series, beating the Boston Braves. If you’ve ever seen Suerk cheering on his Indians, you would know that even now, he is able to channel back to that enthusiastic ten-year-old kid who fell in love with Baseball and the Indians in summer of ‘48.
Suerk is flat on his back in a nursing home now, but this baseball season is shaping up to be a very happy one for him. On Opening Day, an old friend and another baseball lover (Phillies fan), Travis Fore (class of ’86) travelled up to Erie for a visit. They had a wonderful afternoon reminiscing. Suerk says Travis has an amazing ability to stay the same as ever. And two weeks ago, a man who has made Baseball his life, currently as Asst. General Manager of the Kansas City Royals, Dean Taylor (class of' 69), took the opportunity to visit with Suerk while the Royals had an off-day in preparation for their series with the Indians. Suerk has always been moved by Dean’s devotion to Baseball. They have remained close through the years because of their shared respect for one another, and for the Game. Here’s what Dean had to say about his visit.
The visit was very enjoyable (a little over an hour) and I was fortunate enough to be able to bring him autographed baseballs signed by Grady Sizemore (his favorite player) and Cliff Lee, along with an Indians hat that he wore for a large part of my visit. I didn’t have a camera, but the next time you or someone else makes a visit, a photo on the blog of him wearing the hat might elicit a few smiles from the readers, if he wants do so. We spent quite a bit of time talking about both baseball and the ‘Burg, as one would expect. I was pleasantly surprised that he was quite upbeat and seemed to be dealing with the reality of the situation as well as anyone could be. It was a moment in time well spent for both of us, and I’m thankful I was able to make the trip.
I am travelling back to Erie Memorial Day weekend for a visit, and to explore further the possibility of Suerk’s returning to his home on Hilltop Road. We'll watch lots and lots of baseball while I'm there. I’ll be sure to snap that photo of him wearing his new hat.
31 March 2009
Suerk's Birthday
Suerk never has cared much about marking his birthday with any kind of celebration. This year is no exception. Yesterday he had a nurse connect him with his friend since boyhood, Tom Weber. The message, “Don’t let anyone throw any birthday stunts. No hoopla!” Tom promptly cancelled the parade.
I try to keep the ‘feelings discussions’ to a minimum. He offers what he wants, when he wants. I pry when I think it might help him, but that’s not often. It’s important to me that he not associate my calls with therapy sessions. He never did take to that kind of thing. But yesterday I said the obvious to him. “I guess there was no way you ever could have imagined you would be celebrating your 71st in quite this way.” In true Suerken fashion, he said, “Boohoo! Poor me!" I don’t exaggerate when I say that I have not heard a hint of self-pity in his voice since the accident. And as you can see, he finds self-deprecation far more appealing than he does self-pity.
As always, I read Suerk the letters that come through the email address, "forpaulsuerken@gmail.com" He loves having that connection.
I try to keep the ‘feelings discussions’ to a minimum. He offers what he wants, when he wants. I pry when I think it might help him, but that’s not often. It’s important to me that he not associate my calls with therapy sessions. He never did take to that kind of thing. But yesterday I said the obvious to him. “I guess there was no way you ever could have imagined you would be celebrating your 71st in quite this way.” In true Suerken fashion, he said, “Boohoo! Poor me!" I don’t exaggerate when I say that I have not heard a hint of self-pity in his voice since the accident. And as you can see, he finds self-deprecation far more appealing than he does self-pity.
As always, I read Suerk the letters that come through the email address, "forpaulsuerken@gmail.com" He loves having that connection.
10 March 2009
Turning 71
Suerk has been transferred to St. Vincent Hospital for a few days to receive treatment for pneumonia. His nurse reassures me that they were using an abundance of caution in admitting him. Without full use of his diaphragm, a condition that accompanies his paralysis, he is more susceptible to lung infection. Hence the cautious intervention. We expect him to be back in his room at the Western Reserve nursing home in a day or two.
Suerk turns 71 on the 31st. I keep wondering how such milestones will impact his mood. I anticipate hearing sadness in his voice when we talk. I expect to find him suffering from depression. Explain to me how a man who was active and fully mobile just eight months ago can adjust to life flat on his back, in a bed, in a nursing home, with a sense of self, a sense of dignity, without anger, and with a sense of humor. I continue to be inspired. So I expect on his 71st birthday, we will talk and laugh like we do on any other day. We’ll share memories. We’ll talk politics. And I will be glad to have him still in my life, in part because he still manages to find some joy in living.
17 February 2009
Coping
Suerk and I have talked a lot lately about friends we know who are mourning the illness and loss of loved ones -- people and pets. He reminded me of a letter I read to him last summer from young Maddie Winebrenner. Here it is.
Dear everyone-
Rossall, my 14 year old dog, is being put to sleep tommorrow. He had bone cancer, one good leg, lime disease, authritus, and mental issues. I feel really bad and he has been with me ever since I was born and before that. I also now have a 19 week old puppy named Lucy. People I go to school with, if you know and love rossall wear black tommorrow to be respectful of this...I will never smile my awesome maddie smile until I feel I could move on which could be a while...Rossall will allways be in our hearts if you had met him. He was a strange, but good dog...and I love him...
Much love,
maddie
Dear everyone-
Rossall, my 14 year old dog, is being put to sleep tommorrow. He had bone cancer, one good leg, lime disease, authritus, and mental issues. I feel really bad and he has been with me ever since I was born and before that. I also now have a 19 week old puppy named Lucy. People I go to school with, if you know and love rossall wear black tommorrow to be respectful of this...I will never smile my awesome maddie smile until I feel I could move on which could be a while...Rossall will allways be in our hearts if you had met him. He was a strange, but good dog...and I love him...
Much love,
maddie
20 January 2009
Inguguration Day
Suerk and I share a friend who offered the words that follow in his blog. We thought it might be right to share his words here today.
rise up; it is a brand new day
My Grandfather, the one whose name I share, was raised at the family place by a woman his father used to own. His father, whose name I also share, is buried there in the family graveyard, just feet from his slaves. His grave is elaborately marked, but not that of his son's nannie. Just simple rocks. A low, stacked stone wall separates them, the named and the nameless.
There is a walnut chest of Aunt Janie's passed from generation to generation that occupies a place of honor in our family. It is Aunt Janie's Chest, a gift to her favorite white child and it sits in the bedroom of my father, whose name I share.
My father, I was to learn later in life, lost a job and changed a career because he marched and preached for those who lacked his same rights, those nameless souls that languished in poverty, ignorance and discrimination. The broken. The destitute. Those full of grace. The nannies and the craftsmen and the toilers. Those across the wall.
So the election of a black man to this nation's highest office resonates deeply within me. It rattles through my core and calls up emotions I didn't know I had. Emotions probably shared with generations of like-named men. It breaks through the layers of prejudice and hate and violence and fear. It breaks down so many walls, real and imagined. More than anything, it makes me proud of my family, proud of my country, proud of what we can achieve. Indeed, there is hope.
JTBjr
rise up; it is a brand new day
My Grandfather, the one whose name I share, was raised at the family place by a woman his father used to own. His father, whose name I also share, is buried there in the family graveyard, just feet from his slaves. His grave is elaborately marked, but not that of his son's nannie. Just simple rocks. A low, stacked stone wall separates them, the named and the nameless.
There is a walnut chest of Aunt Janie's passed from generation to generation that occupies a place of honor in our family. It is Aunt Janie's Chest, a gift to her favorite white child and it sits in the bedroom of my father, whose name I share.
My father, I was to learn later in life, lost a job and changed a career because he marched and preached for those who lacked his same rights, those nameless souls that languished in poverty, ignorance and discrimination. The broken. The destitute. Those full of grace. The nannies and the craftsmen and the toilers. Those across the wall.
So the election of a black man to this nation's highest office resonates deeply within me. It rattles through my core and calls up emotions I didn't know I had. Emotions probably shared with generations of like-named men. It breaks through the layers of prejudice and hate and violence and fear. It breaks down so many walls, real and imagined. More than anything, it makes me proud of my family, proud of my country, proud of what we can achieve. Indeed, there is hope.
JTBjr
10 January 2009
A Visit With Jamie Finlay '87
I have stopped asking Suerk his permission for a visit from an old friend. He tends to fret over it, often telling me to tell the visitor not to come. That's why Jamie's visit on Tuesday the 6th was a surprise -- a surprise and a gift for Suerk, and for all the rest of us. Jamie's words that follow will reveal why.
Matt
Perspective...
There are specific events that happen to us and our friends over the years that truly open our eyes and widen our perspective. The news of what happened to my friend and our friend Suerk in July 2008 was such an event.
Driving up from Pittsburgh this Tuesday I was preparing myself for anything and everything...would Suerk receive my surprise visit with joy or would he feel guilty that I had come all the way from London to see him. How was he going to receive a friend not seen for over 10 years and former student from almost 30 years ago? Yes, I was a wee bit nervous as I walked into the reception at the Western Reserve Nursing Home in Erie.
To say that everyone at the hospital knows Paul Suerken would be an understatement. At reception announcing my arrival to see Suerk, the 3 staff around the desk in unison told me which room he was in. At the same time a couple of staff walking past told me too...this a scene Scrubs with a chorus of staff in unison announcing his room number at the same time! This 'news' from so many immediately felt good.
Down the corridor, then turning right, I walked into his room at 11:30am, 30 minutes later than he was told earlier in the morning that he was to receive a surprise visit from a friend coming from from far away. I peeked round the room dividing curtain, looked at Suerk lying in his bed and said, "Hey stranger, long time no see...sorry I'm late!" About 10 seconds of silence, lots of blinking from Suerk, then a deep intake of breath and, "Oh my...oh my...Jamie...what a wonderful surprise! Then after another pause as we comprehended we were looking at each other Suerk said, "You British students back in England...turning up late for class you were always saying, (pausing again to say in his best British accent!), 'Sorry Sir for being late!"
It was an emotional opening few minutes for the both of us. I walked round the bed to his side to give him a kiss and caress his head...we both managed to hold back our tears of joy and happiness in being together in the same place and time after last seeing each other when I drove through Erie in 1997. I sat on the end of his bed and when asked wiped tears and 'gunk' from his eyes. (Suerk liked the word 'gunk'!) Beaming smiles from both of us and 3 hours of wonderful conversation began.
From earlier blogs from those who have spoken with and visited Suerk I too can add that our dear friend and mentor is 'still all there' and his mind is still as sharp as a pin. There he was recalling our days since our paths first crossed in a classroom at Cranleigh School in Surrey, England in September 1981 for General Studies when I was a 12 year old British student and Suerk was starting his exchange teaching year. Names of former Cranleigh students, faculty and events that took place pretty much tripped off his tongue as memories were triggered.
Then lunch arrived...the time that I had hoped to be with him so I could feed him. We began to laugh recalling a phrase often used in Kiel Hall during my year at Mercersburg, 1986 to 1987...then Suerk boomed out in a hearty strong voice, 'Feed me baby...feed me awwlllll night long!!"
Also noted in an earlier blog, feeding Suerk is a politely requested rhythmic pattern. And with this lunch it was, "...juice...meat...beans...rice...,juice...meat...beans...rice..., juice...meat ...beans...rice," with the rhythm occasionally broken by, "bread...coffee," and dabbing his chin from any mis-entered serving by me. When it came time to serve the lime sorbet we joked about whether either of us had seen anything in nature that matched the vivid green in the cup!!
After 3 hours it was time to leave. Suerk was beginning to look tired and he wanted to get an afternoon nap in. The surprise visit bringing up past memories and thoughts of the future had tired him. I promised I would come back to the USA to visit him wherever he was and that next time my visit wouldn't be a surprise. We thanked each other for the wonderful time we had just spent together. I walked round to Suerk's side, gave him a kiss and again caressed his head and shoulders as we said our final words. "It's at times like this I feel like Stevie Wonder!," said Suerk as his shoulders jigged up and down. He said it was a sign of happiness from him. As I moved to the end of his bed Suerk smiled and said, "I love you Jamie." I walked back to his side and rubbed his other jiggling shoulder, "I love you too Suerk." As we both tried to hold our composure Suerk barked out, "Now get out of here before I start to cry!!" "Me too," I said as I turned passing the room dividing curtain out into the corridor.
To sum up, I'll be honest in stating that despite Suerk saying he is comfortable in the current hospital and that the staff are great, I believe that I, those of you reading this, other former students, faculty and parental friends of Suerk can muster together to do somethings to make his future life as comfortable as possible, maybe with life outside the nursing home back in his home and provide him numerous things to look forward too. I would go as far as to suggest a campaign called,"Do It" or "Do It For Suerk". 'Do It" is what he used to shout at students in England to give them a boost, (sometimes to get his way!), and it's what he had printed on his t-shirt when he trained and ran the London Marathon in 1982. "Do It" was barked out by Suerk again during my visit as he advised me on some future decisions I have to make.
Getting back onto I-79 heading south as the snow swept across the road I cried pretty much the 100 miles driving back to Pittsburgh...for almost 30 years Suerk has taught me perspective on life as a child, a student on both sides of the Atlantic and he continues to give me perspective on life as an adult. I can't wait to see Suerk again...
JAMIE FINLAY '87
James Finlay | photographer
10 May 1982 -- The Day Before the London Marathon -- Time -- 3hr:5min
Matt
Perspective...
There are specific events that happen to us and our friends over the years that truly open our eyes and widen our perspective. The news of what happened to my friend and our friend Suerk in July 2008 was such an event.
Driving up from Pittsburgh this Tuesday I was preparing myself for anything and everything...would Suerk receive my surprise visit with joy or would he feel guilty that I had come all the way from London to see him. How was he going to receive a friend not seen for over 10 years and former student from almost 30 years ago? Yes, I was a wee bit nervous as I walked into the reception at the Western Reserve Nursing Home in Erie.
To say that everyone at the hospital knows Paul Suerken would be an understatement. At reception announcing my arrival to see Suerk, the 3 staff around the desk in unison told me which room he was in. At the same time a couple of staff walking past told me too...this a scene Scrubs with a chorus of staff in unison announcing his room number at the same time! This 'news' from so many immediately felt good.
Down the corridor, then turning right, I walked into his room at 11:30am, 30 minutes later than he was told earlier in the morning that he was to receive a surprise visit from a friend coming from from far away. I peeked round the room dividing curtain, looked at Suerk lying in his bed and said, "Hey stranger, long time no see...sorry I'm late!" About 10 seconds of silence, lots of blinking from Suerk, then a deep intake of breath and, "Oh my...oh my...Jamie...what a wonderful surprise! Then after another pause as we comprehended we were looking at each other Suerk said, "You British students back in England...turning up late for class you were always saying, (pausing again to say in his best British accent!), 'Sorry Sir for being late!"
It was an emotional opening few minutes for the both of us. I walked round the bed to his side to give him a kiss and caress his head...we both managed to hold back our tears of joy and happiness in being together in the same place and time after last seeing each other when I drove through Erie in 1997. I sat on the end of his bed and when asked wiped tears and 'gunk' from his eyes. (Suerk liked the word 'gunk'!) Beaming smiles from both of us and 3 hours of wonderful conversation began.
From earlier blogs from those who have spoken with and visited Suerk I too can add that our dear friend and mentor is 'still all there' and his mind is still as sharp as a pin. There he was recalling our days since our paths first crossed in a classroom at Cranleigh School in Surrey, England in September 1981 for General Studies when I was a 12 year old British student and Suerk was starting his exchange teaching year. Names of former Cranleigh students, faculty and events that took place pretty much tripped off his tongue as memories were triggered.
Then lunch arrived...the time that I had hoped to be with him so I could feed him. We began to laugh recalling a phrase often used in Kiel Hall during my year at Mercersburg, 1986 to 1987...then Suerk boomed out in a hearty strong voice, 'Feed me baby...feed me awwlllll night long!!"
Also noted in an earlier blog, feeding Suerk is a politely requested rhythmic pattern. And with this lunch it was, "...juice...meat...beans...rice...,juice...meat...beans...rice..., juice...meat ...beans...rice," with the rhythm occasionally broken by, "bread...coffee," and dabbing his chin from any mis-entered serving by me. When it came time to serve the lime sorbet we joked about whether either of us had seen anything in nature that matched the vivid green in the cup!!
After 3 hours it was time to leave. Suerk was beginning to look tired and he wanted to get an afternoon nap in. The surprise visit bringing up past memories and thoughts of the future had tired him. I promised I would come back to the USA to visit him wherever he was and that next time my visit wouldn't be a surprise. We thanked each other for the wonderful time we had just spent together. I walked round to Suerk's side, gave him a kiss and again caressed his head and shoulders as we said our final words. "It's at times like this I feel like Stevie Wonder!," said Suerk as his shoulders jigged up and down. He said it was a sign of happiness from him. As I moved to the end of his bed Suerk smiled and said, "I love you Jamie." I walked back to his side and rubbed his other jiggling shoulder, "I love you too Suerk." As we both tried to hold our composure Suerk barked out, "Now get out of here before I start to cry!!" "Me too," I said as I turned passing the room dividing curtain out into the corridor.
To sum up, I'll be honest in stating that despite Suerk saying he is comfortable in the current hospital and that the staff are great, I believe that I, those of you reading this, other former students, faculty and parental friends of Suerk can muster together to do somethings to make his future life as comfortable as possible, maybe with life outside the nursing home back in his home and provide him numerous things to look forward too. I would go as far as to suggest a campaign called,"Do It" or "Do It For Suerk". 'Do It" is what he used to shout at students in England to give them a boost, (sometimes to get his way!), and it's what he had printed on his t-shirt when he trained and ran the London Marathon in 1982. "Do It" was barked out by Suerk again during my visit as he advised me on some future decisions I have to make.
Getting back onto I-79 heading south as the snow swept across the road I cried pretty much the 100 miles driving back to Pittsburgh...for almost 30 years Suerk has taught me perspective on life as a child, a student on both sides of the Atlantic and he continues to give me perspective on life as an adult. I can't wait to see Suerk again...
JAMIE FINLAY '87
James Finlay | photographer
10 May 1982 -- The Day Before the London Marathon -- Time -- 3hr:5min
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
