Tavis’ funeral was well executed. Thoughtful, respectful, tasteful, and sad. Rich served as emcee, John said some words, and Chris read a letter from Tom Riker, Tavis’ father, who was not feeling physically well enough to make the cross-country trip.
Or so I’ve been told; I haven’t seen the video yet.
Yes, I was there, but only for the last 15 minutes or so. Let me explain . . .
I found out about Tavis’ death on a Wednesday. Thursday I received information as to where to send flowers for the services, an address for a funeral home up in Syracuse, NY. I was told the services would be held there Saturday at 6pm. I immediately went to mapquest.com and printed out driving directions to the home, then resumed my workday. “What’s next,” I said to myself. Well next would have to have absorbed the information of a new email sent to me later on Thursday. And to catch the details of a call I vaguely remember having with Tavis’ girlfriend Liz. Both things carried the same info: that Tavis’ mother had changed the services to a church instead of the funeral home. She felt the home was too depressing and that the church was more inviting. I remember reading these words in the email, but somehow, thought I was still reading the address of the funeral home and that Tavis’ mother had merely changed the room within the home. My bad.
A college professor once gave my class about video production. He said “think and read”. He was referring to the various controls and instruments you needed to produce video (in those days), but was clearly noting the universal application of these words as well. “Think and read.” Damn straight. Fewer truer words have ever been spoken to me. I often find myself when on the verge of information overload saying, “stop, chill; think and read,” to regain perspective and composure. If I had only applied this mantra of sorts to a simple, yet crucial email.
I arrived at the funeral home at 5:45pm — ahead of schedule! — only to find the parking lot empty and the place closed. At first I thought I had the day wrong that the services were for the next Saturday. Tavis had been cremated, so I thought it was possible that the services could be held a week later since there was no body to deal with. I was mad at myself for possibly having gotten the facts wrong and having driven 4+ hours for nothing. After a couple of minutes I decided to call the funeral home to see what was going on. (Of course, I had not bothered to print out and bring any of the emails with the correct info and with everyone’s phone numbers.) The home’s answering service picked up. The operator knew nothing of a Riker or Harrington funeral. He suggested I check their website. “Okay,” I said and hung up forgetting I was not in New York City and that convenient internet access might be hard to find. I called the home’s answering service again and insisted that the operator connect me to someone who worked at the home. Gregg finally came on the line. “When is the Riker or Harrington funeral happening,” I asked.
“Right now,” Gregg replied.
“Right now? Well then where? Your place seems to be closed,” I said.
“It was moved to the church,” Gregg explained.
“Church, what church,” I asked. It should be noted here that Tavis was an atheist, so he claimed.
So Gregg told me were and gave me driving directions.
“Well have the services started yet,” I asked.
“Yes, people are up saying words right now.”
I was late and getting later. I was hoping to say a few words myself, but was feeling the opportunity pass by. It took one more call to Gregg to zero in on the church. I was driving like a madman, passing people on double-lined roads and grossly exceeding the speed limit. I bolted into the church with the racket that old church doors tend to produce. I found Rich at the back of the church and told him what happened. I took a seat at his suggestion. I heard the last few pieces of music that were played and focused intensly on Tavis’ memory.
After the services, we all went to Tavis’ mother’s house for food, drink, and conversation. Tavis’ mother, Colleen, had been very sad and was crying for most of the funeral I witnessed. At her house she still seemed very sad, but managed to be quite hospitable and congenial. We all brought the flowers form the service into her house. It was a pleasant environment considering the circumstances. Tavis’ friend Mary had put together a scrapbook of old photos of Tavis, along with some of his poetry and email printouts of all the kind words about Tavis people had shared with each other upon “hearing the news”. Colleen was especially touched by this effort. I got to see a lot of Tavis[base '] friends from Syracuse: Mary and her boyfriend Tony, Chris, Rich, Adam, John and everyone else. John’s 5 year-old son Jack stole the show, however.
It should be mentioned that Tavis did not actually attend Syracuse University, but merely hung out around the cinema department as a high-school student. John said something like, “here was this kid hanging around with us juniors and seniors, and he had such a vast knowledge of cinema, it often rivaled that of ourselves and our professors.” John may not have even used the word “often,” come to think of it. I vaguely remembering Tavis telling me he audited a bunch of classes at Syracuse when I first met him and asked him where he went to college. But the auditing part came a few days later after a simple “Syracuse” answered my question initially. Tavis acquired his education informally, on his own and from others around him, and from the others he put himself around. Lord knows how he did it. I can say this: the man knew how to employ “think and read” to proper effect.
I got a lot of “or so your Lou” at Colleen’s house, having not had the time to meet everyone at the services. Colleen’s coworkers were great. I had a lively conversation with them, but only when Jack wasn’t present. I also got a lot of “we’re so glad you made it up all the way from the city” even though so many others had too. I kept my mouth shut about my venue mix-up around those who I did not know and thought might not have noticed I was late. (Yes, I am going to hell.) Colleen had a nice house. We were all happy, as was Tavis, at seeing her set up so well. When things wound down there, and Tavis’ Syracuse pals asked me to join them at a local watering hole, it was hard to turn down the invite. But I had an unbreakable commitment back home the following day.
Truth be told, my real tribute to Tavis occurred in the car, during the long drives up and back. I had put together a collection of Tavis-burned CD’s (and other CD’s I had actually bought based on his recommendations) and played this music the entire time I was in the car. I forced myself to remember and relive all the great Tavis moments of my life. The concerts, movies, the late night drinking and pontificating sessions. The on-the-job shenanigans. I even looked back with humor on some of the more unpleasant memories. I thought of a period of life, for almost a year I think, where Tavis and I talked on the phone for an hour or so nearly every night at around 11pm. It was one of the few consistent and reassuring things in my life then, and helped me through a rather difficult time for me. I[base ']m not sure Tavis knew of this, of how he helped me out by just being there and listening me touch superficially at my deeps problems then. I spared Tavis all the gory details, as I didn[base ']t want to bring the guy down too much. Also, most of the bliss and humor of a Tavis conversation came form just listening, rather than speaking too much. He was always on a roll. He was there for me again not too long ago in kind of the same way when I needed distraction from the stresses of my professional life. And I knew I provided him with the same comfort when he needed it too. My mother knew of how important Tavis and I were to each other, and she immediately started crying once I told her of Tavis’ passing. She felt for Colleen and cried about the pain she must be feeling for having lost her only son.
I’m not sure what Tavis thinks about me being late to his funeral. But I do know this: if he were next to me now and I was telling him about being late to a friend’s funeral, he would be calling me names and laughing hysterically. And I would be too!
