Comments on My Dog-Eared Pages: IN MEMORY OF MY FRIEND ANDRÉ

Beautiful Mike....in a nutshell!

2009-11-11T14:07:11.695-05:00

Beautiful Mike....in a nutshell!

Thank you Mike. I feel the snow on our faces full ...

2009-11-10T23:27:42.176-05:00

Thank you Mike. I feel the snow on our faces full of laughter and wonder. You got it all so right. I love you always. Barbara

I sit here in my study, at home in Bethesda, Maryl...

2009-11-10T23:25:53.297-05:00

I sit here in my study, at home in Bethesda, Maryland, late at night, listening to fado. Sad, sad songs by Amalia Rodrigues. Andre would have scoffed at my apprehension.

Barbara has asked me to write something about introducing them, and though I told her Sunday morning I'd do it right after the christening, I've been postponing it. So, more than 48 hours after the request, I finally sit, my purpose fortified a little by single malt, putting pen to paper, metaphorically.

I was the friend who introduced Barbara and Andre, and those days I spent with them in Boston would be best described in the Latin phrase, Et In Arcadia Ego. I was also an Arcadian.

With them I ran, through the restaurants and bars of Boston, mad dashes of fun, now more than a quarter century ago. The cold, wind and snow of Boston would hit us after we emerged in full merriment from our carrousing, ready finally to go home. Barbara, so pretty, her face framed by her golden curls, laughing out loud. Andre, knowing that he could stare ridicule in the face and make it scurry away, would pucker up, giving her pecks on the cheek.

The fun we had. As I looked back on it, I never once said to myself, "wow, I never knew they'd hit it off like this." It was more, "why didn't I do this sooner?"

Soon, I shipped off to Paris, in the eventually failed pursuit of a career as a fiction writer, in an apartment in the 2eme arrondissement. I had a great year trying. Andre tried helping me on the phone, but it wasn't the same thing as having him patiently critique my short stories back in Boston.

After I came back to Boston it was time to get serious. I became a journalist and never looked back. I miss telling Andre that I once dined with Amalia Rodrigues in Seoul, spent a night in prison in Panama and got lost in Serbia as I exited war-torn Kosovo. It's the kind of stuff he would have loved to hear. So now I sit here in Bethesda, typing these words about my friends Barbara and Andre, whom I shall never cease to love.

The family is finally asleep upstairs. The children have finally stopped coming down. It is late, and I am finally looking back.

Em, you always got very dressed-up when we met him...

2009-11-09T11:54:38.176-05:00

Em, you always got very dressed-up when we met him for lunch. He adored you. Hang on to that belt darling! I love you. xx Auntie

Although I do not remember much about him, I know ...

2009-11-09T03:34:30.764-05:00

Although I do not remember much about him, I know that Andre was a big part of my childhood. All of my family loved him and I know that I loved him too. From all the stories I've heard, he seemed like a great and fabulous man and affected everyone in his life. I never knew that he was accepted into Harvard, but I knew he was a very accomplished man. We miss him. xoxox Emily
By the way, I have his Taft uniform belt!!!

And, as you are to me too, Dorothy. oxo. Barbara

2009-11-08T15:04:09.519-05:00

And, as you are to me too, Dorothy.
oxo. Barbara

Thank you, Barbara. Who will ever forget that delu...

2009-11-08T13:33:17.949-05:00

Thank you, Barbara. Who will ever forget that deluge during/after Andre's service? My new Yves St. Laurent wool coat was never the same -- perhaps it had something to do with the soggy 8-hour trip back to France that same night.

Like you, I will never forget Andre. He was an extraordinary person, especially for the way he did things. We met at the end of the 60's in a bar in Lech, Austria; we immediately recognized ourselves as family and only ever met up three times again.

Be my cousin, I thought, as I wrote him "Cousin."
"Ma Chere Cousine," he wrote me back, and the correspondence continued several decades until his death.

Why we love is a mystery, but somehow we know it when we come upon it. It doesn't matter if the sun is out or if it is raining -- take the metaphor as far as you care to -- it doesn't matter a whit. What is important is unconditional acceptance of the person and everyone dear to him/her.

As you are to me, Barbara. Thank you again for remembering our Andre.

Love,

Dorothy