Two Curmudgeons

A Tale of Two Curmudgeons 

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Found in a Bar-Restaurant in Budapest, Hungary

Once upon a time in the 1970’s, there was a support group in the Boston area, made up of men who had combined forces to better deal with the tidal wave of societal changes brought on by the women’s rights movement. All five of them had known each other for ever, were divorced, and felt overwhelmed by the new expectations which were shattering their lives steeped in centuries of male supremacy. They met once a week for a meal and evening, when they could freely share their doubts, fears and confusion. As it was explained to me, “they had to in order to survive.” When each one’s life took him away to other states and/or other pursuits, they made a point of meeting once a year, in the same Boston area, for a week-end of “quality time.” The last time they were altogether was in August of 2004.

It was my good fortune to meet two of them, one named Pete, the other Niels, many years later, after the turn of the 21st century. They were both single, short, wiry, cultured, and interesting men in their 60’s, with a good sense of humor, and a raspy “smoker’s voice,” but also grumpy and cynical to a fault. The typical curmudgeons, who could have passed for brothers, if not twins.

I became friends with each of them, gave each one’s eulogy, one year apart, at their respective memorial services in a Unitarian church, after they both died of their respective lung cancers subsequent to emphysema. That in itself is not unusual. What does, however, make this story a very special one is that I met each of them at different times and in different states. Never were the three of us ever together in the same room, or even the same state. Presiding at their respective memorial services -- attended by the other three members of the original group -- was the photo of all five of them in the 70’s, which I still have to this day

The key to this serendipitous connection between the three of us is the fact that my husband and I lived at one time in Salt Lake City, during which time I met Pete in 1997, while simultaneously spending winters in Florida, which is where I met Neils in 2004. I became their common link after the three-way connection was revealed. The best way to let this story unfold is to just share both of their eulogies.

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Pete Williamson's eulogy (October 2005)

Pete, old buddy, wherever you are, here is to you. In that wonderful text you wrote last year to celebrate your own 70th birthday, you said “I am grateful that if I die tomorrow, I will be able to go with no regrets. I’ve had a very good life.”  And you certainly had very good friends. For a cantankerous old bachelor, you certainly had a lot of people stumbling on your doorstep, eager to help, assist and support you.

You and I were friends for the seven or so years that I’ve been a member of South Valley, mostly through our shared commitment to and enjoyment of our choir. Our respective diminutive heights was a common bond from day one, and the fact that your male ego was not threatened by your height impressed me greatly. We always expressed our mutual affection by calling each other “shortie” or “short stuff.”

Last July, prompted by our minister’s list of concerns for all members of our congregation to look out for while he was away on vacation, I called you. By what I thought then was a coincidence -- but know now was but pure serendipity --, it happened to be the very afternoon you had received your diagnosis. Although you weren’t prone to sharing personal matters with anybody, the timing of my call was such that you told me about.

 From then on, our friendship developed to another level. Having had multiple exposures to the medical field over the years, I volunteered to be your patient’s advocate, and you accepted. I went with you to your doctor’s appointments, and monitored your self-care, especially reminding you to use oxygen. Which you often and affectionately referred to as nagging -- since it’s what women do best! I became your spokesperson to make sure your wishes were heard and your questions answered. And also that you clearly understood what was happening to you, and what to expect. Which wasn’t hard, not only because your oncologist was a wonderful physician and human being, but because of your intelligence, sense of humor, and ability to look at things in the face.

We talked about your life, and we talked about death. I got to know more about the one, and to learn your wishes about the other. We had in common our belief in the right to die with dignity, which deepened our friendship further.

During your first chemo sessions, we discovered that we shared the same passion for crossword puzzles. You couldn’t resist the mental challenge, which seemed to help you forget your annoyance at having a hard time breathing. From then on, we worked together on one puzzle or another every chance we got.

I brought my crossword dictionary over, which you first self-righteously pooh-poohed because “it was cheating.” You soon agreed -- with one of your famous, wicked grins -- that, yes, OK, it wasn’t cheating, it was learning.

Most of all, dear friend, I want to thank you for all that, unbeknownst to you, your friendship brought me. Which was the opportunity to rewrite a very painful part of my own personal history. Thirty years ago (long before I met Robin), I was very briefly married to a man who was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Totally unable to deal with it at any level, he rejected my presence and my support, ran away from home, and divorced me, against my will, six months later.

Your own acceptance of my support and involvement was very cathartic to me, and allowed me to let go of the pain from a wound which I thought would never heal. It was a gift I will never forget.

Like many others in this congregation which was like your family, I loved you dearly. And I still do. You won’t be forgotten, old buddy.

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Niels Knakkergaard's eulogy (2006) 

Having attended services at this congregation as a seasonal snowbird for only four winters, I knew Niels Knakkergaard much less than a lot of you. What qualifies me to speak at his memorial service -- at Niels's request -- is my connection between him and one of his very best, lifelong friends, Pete Williamson.

When I joined the play-reading group in this congregation, three winters ago, I met Niels and introduced myself as living in Salt Lake City. His face instantly lit up, and he exclaimed: "Salt Lake City! One of my very best friends lives there! Pete Williamson, would you happen to know him?!"  "Do I know him," I burst out laughing, "we sing side by side as tenors in our UU congregation choir. He's a good friend of mine!" From there, a three-way connection started which delighted all of us, because it provided each of them with a live link to relay news and commentaries from the one to the other during the off-seasons: how does he look? how does he feel? what did he say? etc.

As it happened, Niels and Pete both had emphyzema, and the same raspy voice. They even looked alike: short, wiry, and bearded. They had been two of the five men who'd started a consciousness-raising group for men in the mid 70s, in their common UU congregation in Ipswich, MA. Their motivation was to counteract the tidal wave effect of the women's liberation movement which had swept through our society, making many men feel threatened and confused. As they both put it humorously, they stuck together to survive. After Pete moved to Utah and Niels to Florida, they continued meeting once a year in the Boston area for many years. The last meeting of all five of them was in 2004, the year before Pete died in Salt Lake City. Their picture is sitting on the table today, as it was at Pete's memorial service.

Arriving in Naples in December 2005, I got a chance to update Niels with Pete's last few months. He was eager to hear and grateful for any news and detail. This allowed him the necessary closure, since he so dearly regretted his absence at Pete's memorial service.

The following winter, I wondered when I didn't see Niels in December, 2006, after our arrival in Naples for the winter. When I heard the following Sunday that Niels had just been transferred to a hospice, I was in shock. I hadn’t even known he'd been hospitalized around Thanksgiving. I felt the loop closing between Niels, Pete and myself.

I went to visit him at the hospice house, and we were happy to see each other. We laughed about our human foibles, and giggled over our respective ailments. His sense of humor was like Pete's, though less cantankerous. We brought each other up to speed since the previous spring, and we talked about Pete again. That's when he asked me to speak at his own memorial service, to tell of the connection with his good friend. I was touched and proudly accepted.

On Christmas day, because he felt too weak for company, I read to him over the phone my favorite Christmas book, A Christmas Cup of Tea, by Tom Hegg, which I had read to our congregation the day before.

As Niels entered the last week of his life, and became weaker and weaker, I visited him every day and told him: "That's OK, you don't have to talk. I'll just sit here and hold your hand." And he whispered: "Like you did for Pete?" I didn’t tell him that, sadly enough, it wasn't so since Pete died rather suddenly and almost prematurely, while my husband and I were out of the country. When I repeated to him the next day: "I'll be back tomorrow and just hold your hand" he whispered: "Please do..."

He, and all of you who are hearing this now, might have thought that I was doing him a favor. However, unbeknownst to him, it was the other way around. My presence at his bedside was very cathartic for me. It compensated for my not having had the opportunity to be near the people dearest to me when they all died: my best childhood friend, my father, and my mother, all in France; and finally Pete in 2005. He was the first and only person whose hand I got to hold while on his way out. I hope it smoothed the road for him as much as it healed me

Niels, my friend, wherever you are -- together with Pete or not --, you were loved and won't be forgotten. As was the case for Pete.

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