“Selene, this is Amy. James Keech was my dad.”
Amy went on to tell me that a neighbor had first seen the column and called her mom. Her mom called her and shared the story. Separate readings, many tears and the upside of social media were the alchemy that brought us together.
Covid-19 arrived on the heels of my job elimination – a double whammy in the domain of uncha…
We chatted for some time and found much common ground. Lunch seemed to be a logical next step.
I arrived at the restaurant before Amy. But a short time later she rounded the corner, arms laden with the mementos she had promised to share.
I brought a copy of the essay that started it all.
We remained at the table long after the dishes were cleared and methodically pored over the collection. In addition to a copy of the beautiful eulogy Amy’s brother, David, had written for their dad, and the program from his memorial service, Amy had brought a Shutterfly-type album that she had assembled as a gift to her parents. It chronicled the lives of family members – her mom and dad early in their marriage, enjoying the company of colleagues from the SUNY Buffalo State English Department, Amy and her brother at various stages, and the next generation – all frozen in time.
Amy’s father had also compiled a book of stories that he had written. They were mostly about fly-fishing, a passion he enjoyed throughout his life. It afforded me the opportunity to see him in a different light and to appreciate his impressive talent as a writer.
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