Eulogy Redux

Among other things, I write for a living , and so am naturally self-critical in what I put out there, though I try not to be too hard on myself when I can always blame it all on the cold, hard, cruel deadline.
Not long after Ken's wake, I realized that although I had spent much time thinking and writing what I would present at Ken's wake, just as I had had to prepare for everything else before his heart stopped, there was something obvious I missed.
It wasn't the CD of music I had compiled, burned, but did not play at the wake. These were pieces of music both mournful and beautiful, and mostly well-known and beloved by Ken himself, but something stopped me from using it that day. (I will present the music in a list before too long.)
No, it was geography...
As I lay in bed, my mind and soul reeling from the slow-motion fatal train wreck, my mind darted about late at night until I realized something very simple. The funeral home was ground zero of Ken's life. Let me explain...
Ken (as I) was born and lived for some years just a few miles west of Fullerton in Rockville Centre. Both one and three miles south of Fullerton were the homes we grew up in, as well as our elementary and junior high schools. A few miles north was Baldwin Senior High School, as well as the house he lived in for a few years, with our Italian step-family, across the street from it during dad's ill-fated second marriage of two years. A few miles further to the east is Freeport, where Ken and dad would share an apartment from the end of that time ('74) till their deaths.
I could have taken everyone outside for a walking tour..."see folks next door, that's St. Christopher's where we all went to church together before the divorce which meant excommunication for life then. Let's go up Grand Avenue past where those pix of as tykes were taken at the long gone Hamilton Studio, where dad had a few of his clients, where Ken's orthodontist from hell, Dr. Fischel (or "fish head" as we called him) had his office, and where Ken had his PO box for many years.
Across the street to the east on Merrick Road was where we went to the Venice Restaurant, where they still don't understand 'al dente', where the Carvel still is where mom loved to get her vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles, and that church across the street from there that used to be a movie theater like so many others. (Remember 'Bullit' with Steve McQueen and 'One Million Years BC' with Raquel Welch...?) A few hundred feet further, see?, that's the police station where Michael Gerdyk was booked for murder...

Finally

Dear friends of Ken Wicht,

It will soon be 2 years since Ken's passing. I had planned on this blog being up a year ago, but there was more to deal with than I had imagined. I had to make numerous trips to Freeport, Long Island, to deal with what was left of Ken's material life, as there is no one in the family left on Long Island to help out.

I invite anyone, especially those who knew Ken personally, to blog here, and/or e-mail photos that I will upload. If you have prints, I can scan and return them within a few days.

There are many more pix to come. Most need to be scanned from slides or prints and formatted, which is time consuming. Please bear with me as Ken's blog develops. In the meantime, click on the 'Ken's photos' (PICASA) link (upper right) to view what I have uploaded so far.

There is so much to write about Ken: from his love of language (fluent in Russian and Spanish) and words, to his great photography; from becoming a Master Diver and cave diver, to our travels together; from his becoming a pilot, to his stint in the Air Force; from his in-depth knowledge of the Civil War, to his love of music (oldies to classical and jazz), not to mention his encyclopedic knowledge and love of baseball, Ken wasted little time.

When you learn the daunting background he had to endure to live this much, you will agree with Ken's Russian auto mechanic who said to me, "Somebody should write a book about that guy." Hopefully this blog will emerge as a reasonable and loving facsimile.

Thanks,
Paul