Burying the Dead

We have been burying the dead since the dawn of civilization.

It is a ritual that offers closure, pays respect to families, celebrates life in countless ways and, to some, completes the circle of life by returning bodies to the soil. There is a great history of these final acts, with varied traditions defined by a host of cultures. In older times, for instance, the dead frequently were buried with a favorite tool or perhaps a prized possession that would offer future generations a glimpse into a long-ago past.

For now, because of the Covid-19 that is rampaging across our country, leaving thousands in its wake, burials are on hold, mostly due to prohibitions against gatherings.

Earlier this week, Geri’s father’s girlfriend of some thirty years died in Queens, New York, the center of the epicenter of this virus. Tommy and Pauline never married because his Roman Catholic beliefs kept him from acknowledging the divorce Geri’s mother achieved without his consent.

Pauline was an Italian woman from a large family. She had a large family of her own, created with a husband known for his abuse. Tommy was quiet, supportive and loving in his way. He protected her.

New York is on lock-down and there will be no funeral, no gathering of family and friends and neighbors. No Chianti wine will be poured into plastic cups. Tray-after-tray of lasagna, garlic bread, antipasti, or even Pauline’s famous—and delicious—baked ziti will not be set on a crowded table. Her priest won’t be there and there will be nobody standing around in a cramped living room filled with memories and the lingering aromas of a million meals. For now, the stories that need telling won’t be told. Any expression of love or respect for a life well lived will be silent. There will be no laughter to cut through the tears, no prayers to offer solace to the faithful.

There should have been a service of celebration, an interment and a reception. There should have been ricotta cheesecake and cannoli and melt-in-your mouth brutti ma buoni, those ugly-but-good cookies.

As it is, considering the strains placed on almost every needed service in New York, it’s not even known for sure what will become of her remains, or if there even will be a casket to hold them. On a normal New York City day, one hundred or so die. These past few weeks have seen that number times six or seven or eight. Maybe more.

Refrigerated trucks and cargo containers are lined up outside New York City hospitals to house the dead. They’ve run out of truck space and are creating mass burial sites in city parks. Burial, some believe, contains and kills whatever might have caused a death. There might be a sense of urgency to this task.

My wife is distraught over not just Pauline’s death but that now she has no family left to call. Thus is the nature of growing older. A sibling’s death, a parent’s or friend’s, is a cruel reminder of our own mortality. Geri’s remaining sibling died several weeks ago. She seeks closure on at least two fronts.

Closer to home, a longtime friend of ours passed away Wednesday morning.

Peter Bowen was a brilliant writer the New York Times once called “Thoreau in Big-Sky Country.” He wrote it off as so much nonsense, but he was nevertheless pleased by a wider recognition of his craft and artistry. Or so I suspect. He’d grumble when he walked into the Owl and a small chorus would announce, “Thoreau!”

The Owl—once a hole-in-the-wall tavern with torn bar stools and nicotine stained walls—was where we first met in 1993. He was one of the horde of writers who saw the place as a second home, even during arduous bouts with sobriety. We’d gather there late on weekday afternoons and exchange stories and lies and idle chatter for an hour or two.

Bowen was adopted by a couple who would migrate through Indiana and Colorado to Bozeman, Montana, arriving there in the mid-’50s. Peter would have been ten-years-old, or so. It was there that his father taught at Montana State College and it was there that Peter devised a life for himself that seemed at times unfathomable. To hear his stories over coffee or cocktails was to be transported to a world of excitement and adventure that few could ever imagine.

His manner was brusque; his appearance, generally unkempt—a long scraggly beard, uncombed hair, a ruddy complexion. He presented a picture of another time. He fit perfectly the picture of somebody who had guided fishermen and hunters, bar-tended, wrangled, ranched and irrigated, worked in construction, flipped burgers, and gigged frogs in his youth to supply Bozeman’s biology classes with specimens for dissection.

As a boy, his adventures ended when the sun set. Perhaps. At some point then, he’d stare down at a blank sheet of paper in the platen of a portable typewriter and proceed to create a world that would one day fascinate—no, mesmerize—the reader. It was the first step in a career focused on stringing words together to reveal the nature of man.

We all have stories; Peter listened like a conservatory student and then told the stories with precision and a concertized flair—an improvised cadenza that soared to a coda of promised finality. Some might of considered it a gift.

He thought it a craft, not unlike the cabinetry he built.

He toiled, for the most part, in the mystery genre. It suited him well. He was plot-driven, but was equally interested in character. His protagonists were much like Peter, complex and colorful. He was honest to a fault, knowing full well that mere facts don’t necessarily reveal truth. His stories were truthful.

Peter came across as gruff. He tried to reconcile an Old West with the New, and personified the imagery in both his persona and his work. For all his gruffness though, he had a big heart and was kind and thoughtful, loving and considerate. His attitude toward children was not unlike W.C. Fields, but he doted on ours. He was an exceptional judge of character, once noting that a dog of ours he once tended was awaiting a limousine ride for an appearance on “Beavis and Butthead.”

His laugh was a raspy, staccato exhalation.

Peter was a masterful, prolific storyteller. He was not a patient man and he could interrupt another’s story with an ending that was more to his liking, or perhaps just to move it along. He was insistently laid back in demeanor, and always seemed in a hurry to walk away slowly.

I used to see him almost every day as he’d step out of the door of Sax & Fryer. He’d stop, light one of his hand-rolled cigarettes, push his sunglasses on, and look up and down Callender Street before deciding which direction to go. He’d amble away then, lost in the thoughts that guided a life both on and off the page.

My father-in-law met Peter at the Owl one long-ago day. Tommy had grown up in Ireland reading fanciful novels about the American west. Peter seemed to embody that spirit and to that Tommy seemed happy to raise his screwdriver to Peter’s club soda.

The irascible storyteller seemed pleased.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Pauline’s Baked Ziti

As is typical with great Italian home cooks, recipes are something locked in memory. Pauline’s suggest that you cook the ziti following the package directions, probably 8-10 minutes. One then should mix the cooked pasta with a rich marinara sauce. One then adds ricotta and mozzarella cheese to the mix. Finally, one adds sliced Italian sausage—spicy or sweet, your call—and meatballs. This masterpiece of an Italian casserole is then baked, covered, for 40 minutes at 350°. Uncover and return to oven for another five minutes to crisp the top.

Meatballs

1# ground beef
2 eggs
Salt and pepper
1/4 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1-1/2 Tbs. pecorino-romano cheese
1/4 cup chicken broth
1 slice of stale bread, crumbled

Mix ingredients. Form into balls or ovals. Fry in vegetable oil.