By Sharon Sheridan
I hope writing this doesn’t get me haunted.
The last time I saw my friend Bob, he announced that he didn’t want any obituary or funeral or memorial after he died. He didn’t seem in any danger of imminent expiration at the time, but we’d been discussing the funeral of someone in our parish, so it wasn’t as morbid a comment as it might appear.
Still, I looked at him in consternation: “But the memorial is for the living. We’d need it.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” said his partner of 40 years, adding to him with mock severity, “You won’t be here.”
And suddenly, shockingly, less than a month later, he’s not. A stroke, a gradual improvement, then an unexpected bout of pneumonia, and Bob passed quietly in the emergency room from the presence of his beloved Hiram, his priest and his friends into the eternal presence of God.
We originally met about 20 years ago, through the music program at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Morristown. A concert first drew Bob and Hiram through the great wooden doors, and they soon became members. I remember Bob telling me early on how he’d been away from the church for many years.
“Why?” I asked, wondering if he’d come from a faith tradition less tolerant of diversity.
“Oh, hard times …” was all he said.
The last time we spoke, he discussed different hard times: The Great Depression. Learning that my son had been studying the 1930s, Bob began reminiscing about growing up during those days and the treat of coming home with a bit of bologna from the corner store, which kept a running tab.
He was quick with a story. And quick with compassion. In his retirement, while Hiram the retired teacher worked with small children at the Y and babysat youngsters for the mothers’ group at St. Peter’s, Bob worked with the elderly. Bob was an artist and a photographer, and he took stunning black-and-white pictures of some of his patients as they slipped through their last days. A story accompanied each photo, but only in his head; we talked once about collaborating on a book.
The photo I remember best, however, was one he displayed at an art show at St. Peter’s: a wedding bouquet, resting brilliant in an urn in the snow outside the church’s front doors.
Those doors welcomed Bob and Hiram into a church family and into its ministries. Bob sang in one of the choirs. Hiram served on a search committee. Both served on the altar guild, and both trained to be lay ministers.
As years and age crept along, their participation lessened. But you could count on them to be there for the big things: High holy days, concerts and Evensongs, stewardship kickoffs. Their lives were woven into the fabric of the church.
Except one of the threads is now broken. There’s a Bob-shaped hole at St. Peter’s and in a house in Madison, where inexplicably the garden still grows and the furniture waits where it’s stood since he last rearranged it.
Perhaps heaven holds furniture to move and gardens to tend and desserts to satisfy a sweet tooth without increasing one’s waistline. It surely offers wonderful concerts and plenty of old friends to greet.
Perhaps Bob is so busy, he won’t notice that I wrote him a tribute after all.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Robert Hinton died June 4 at age 83.
Sharon,
What a beautiful tribute! Robert was my father’s health aid for several years. He was important to our entire family. And while my father passed on, Robert remained our friend. He opened his heart and home, leaving us the gift of Hiram’s friendship.
I am blessed that Robert touched my life,
Liz
Dear Sharon,
Thank you so very much for writing this. Both Bob and Hiram are very dear to me. I grew up with them coming to our Thanksgiving dinners and cousin’s club picnic for many years and that was well over 20 years ago. They were close friends of our family and our heart, and remain so even though time and distance has, as it will, changed our physical locations.
In mentioning the furniture you reminded me that when I was in my early 20’s moving into a new home Bob and Hiram gave me these wonderful pieces of furniture and unique items for the house which they had collected over the years from yard sales. The white wicker furniture, although a bit worse for wear, sits in our garden here in Burbank. It has traveled far from New Jersey, where it was lovingly given. I think I will go and sit on it, and think lovingly of the man who my mother loved first as her close friend, then our family as ours.
We were all lucky to know him and his gentle soul.
Thank you,
Bari
What a beautiful tribute to a very special man! I knew him through his care for the eldery. I was a supervisor of home health aides and then director of an Alzeheimer’s Day Care and worked with Bob through both jobs. He became very special to me especially when I was dealing with grief after the death of a very dear patient of mine. He was so understanding. He was a true gentleman. I moved to SC 11 years ago and continued to keep in touch with him and Hiram, visiting when I went back to NJ. I wish I could be at his memorial. I will be there in spirit. Even though I didn’t see him often I miss him.