Death
is coming and leaving
the tavern,
death
leaving and coming in.

by Frederico Garcia Lorca

Many years ago I wrote this poem into one of my little notebooks.  There are nine of these small notebooks, small enough to fit inside of a rear pocket of my blue jeans.  I liked the poem by Lorca.  The words are spare, to the point.  The poet considers death to be ordinary, nothing special, just an invisible feature of the day to day routine.  Consider a tavern, or in the case of one who drinks coffee, a Starbucks, from which the regulars come and go every day.  Death also comes and goes.  I found the poem this morning.

On Saturday, my son and I anticipated spending a summer’s afternoon at the race track.  A superb day for drag racing, — temperature in the mid 80s, warming crew members, usually family, and rendering the track launch pad “tacky”, for that perfect starting line launch.  While on I-294 to Wisconsin, I had a problem with my insulin pump.  Reluctantly I returned home, since being at the track for four or more hours without insulin seemed a foolish idea.

The next day, Sunday morning, the first text that I read on my iphone screen from a friend asked if I had been at The Grove on Saturday.  Was I present to see the crash of the Corvette that took the life of Chuck Weck?   I felt fortunate that I was not present to witness the death of another.  Death makes me shudder, the mind stammers, there’s no possible way to adequately conceive the abrupt end-point of a life.  The curtain falls, the play is over, and everyone leaves…

There are many ways to die.  I have witnessed several approach death.  The end sometimes is not pleasant, or quick.  I can think of many ways to go, palpably worse than a quick “lights out” of losing control at 200 mph at the big end of the race track.  Weck left this world, doing what he loved – enveloped by the blown motor’s scream, feeling the violent lift of the launch, adjusting by instinct for the twist of torque to the right…  He left as all of us must.

Rest in peace — Chuck.  I did not know you, but I shared your love for the beauty, and the possibility of ecstasy — offered by a quarter mile of asphalt and the inexpressible acceleration of a race car.

Another poem by which to remember Chuck Weck.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, never send to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

‘Devotions upon Emergent Occasions’ published in 1623