Dust to Dust

By James Blears

I may be wrong, but it’s always seems to me that so many people die in January?

In his epic poem The Wasteland TS Eliot wrote: “January is the cruelest month.” Certainly some of the chilliest days dawn after the longest nights at this time of year. J M Barrie wrote in Peter Pan that the souls of lost children took a glimpse at this world and decided it was not for them. None of us can chose the day or the month in which we are born or when we pass away, leaving this world to its own devices. We don’t know exactly which day we will die and perhaps it’s for the best?

Part of the task of a boxing scribe involves writing obituaries. It’s always a fraught task because how on earth can you sum up the life of a man, woman or deceased child in words, few or many?

All this has come to the forefront and particularly hit home with two particular events. The tenth anniversary of the passing of the Great Don Jose Sulaiman. The service at the Basilica of Guadalupe was packed with the Boxing Family who loved, adored and respected him so very much. The solemnity, the everlasting memories which draw people close together.

Then just one day later, a phone call from former neighbors and friends Carlos and Lucy to tell us that his father Don Adrian had died. The funeral was in Tequisquiapan some distance away from Mexico City. But miles/kilometers are irrelevant in such circumstances. Being there is the only thing which matters.

We have attended many more funerals in Mexico than we ever did in England. A section of the coffin/casket is glass and open to viewing of the departed loved one. The deceased person is often embalmed and the features bear little resemblance to the vibrant, living person everyone so loved and cherished. Thank goodness and thank God we have and we retain the memories intact and strong.

In life Don Adrian was a jolly man with a wonderful wit and sense of humor. His spirit lives on and what is left is the shell…a husk. He had lived a long and a very full life, but this in no way diminishes the sorrow of his parting.

Only a handful of people including family and close friends attended, which for this particular occasion was fitting, apt and appropriate.

People sat around and talked in low voices out of respect. The occasional smile and snatch of laughter about his foibles and what made him so much him…so human and memorable. The priceless gift of legacy amidst a time of mourning. As Gavin Maxwell wrote: “A Ring Of Bright Water.”

The irreverent journalist instinct kicked in… oh dear! In life Don Adrian had loved a drink in the company of friends and family at a fiesta where he was the life and soul of the party. Characteristically Flor, Monica and I trudged to a nearby tiendita de esquina and bought some cans of beer to share with the mourners and toast the Old Boy. Two six packs! Our feet were covered in dust which lay as thickly as fresh fallen snow. It coated my polished buffed shoes. Dust to dust prior to ashes to ashes! Even today, after our return home, it still lingers on my shoes. I haven’t yet been able to shake off that dust.

The pencil slim elderly seemingly world weary Nun who conducted the Service, gingerly asked his name before starting the proceedings. That really brought it home to me!

As she was doing that final service, cars and trucks thundered by on the nearby highway outside the funeral home. A harsh and stark reminder that everyday life goes on in the midst of death. Nothing ever stops.

Tears stutteringly fell as the bright flickering candles were blown out and Don Adrian inside his coffin was discreetly carried away by two burly darkly clad men. The awful finality. Too close to home.

His widow Dona Nery was too frail and ill to attend the service. Only a week ago Adrian had sat by her bedside in hospital. Thank God she is now recovering at home in bed. Seemingly in robust health and characteristically, he had been there for her during her hour of need, but now he himself is gone. Fate can reserve some unexpected twists?

In a matter of fact way, one woman said we would have to wait four hours for the ashes. That shook me!

We traipsed to a nearby restaurant where the beer was warm, the food was almost cold and the service was interminably slow. The humor of that would certainly not have been lost on Don Adrian. And then as the light was fading and as we left, I looked up at the sky. A flock of migrating birds was winging its way southward to warmer climes in a V shape, moving from one sphere to another. One realm of the Heavens to another.

All of us are born and all of us die. It’s what we achieve and what we accomplish in between which is so memorable and the residual, lasting love of our family, who are left behind, as we start our final journey on the road of no return. They are there for us, after the end. Our legacy is their love which remains like the rocks forever.

TS Eliot also wrote: “In my beginning is my end. What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. So the darkness shall be light and the stillness dancing.”

As the great Sports writer Jimmy Cannon wrote when starting some of his most memorable articles: Nobody asked me, but:

His famous tribute to all- time Great Joe Louis was: “Joe Louis was a credit to his race….The Human Race!”

So are you Don Adrian. Farewell my Friend.