What You Have Been Waiting For, Girls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       Yes, darlings, this is the personalized obituary to my father, that I have promised.

                                         My father, Michael J. Hearn, Jr. lived 102 years on Earth, from April 30, 1915, to February 12, 2018.  And what a century it was!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                          The historical stuff you can read for yourselves, on the website of the James Terry Funeral Home.  What I will share on here are very specific memories that I treasure, and shall miss every day going forth.  As I write, the tears start to come.

                                            First, let me say, this photo of him was taken, when he was 94!  Did you hear that, girls????????  94!!!!!!!!!!!!  How many of us will look this good, at that age???????????

                                             OK, the memories, from earliest to recent.

                                              Endless board games when I was a child.  Candy Land, Chutes and Ladders, Easy Money, Scrabble (Jr, and Adult).  When there were no kids around for me to play with, he would.

                                               The Early Sixties, when Asbury Park, I thought, was the most magical place in the world.  My two favorite rides, back then, were the Tilt-A-Whirl, and The Scrambler, both very fast rides, which I loved.  My father would go on them with me, because, on some level he enjoyed them, too, and, as I was small, the impact might have knocked me out of the seats!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                The Mid-Sixties--Taking me to see "Mary Poppins," and "The Sound Of Music," defining screen moments for me.  Most important--May 10, 1966, both my parents getting to this point, so I could successfully undergo open heart surgery, enabling me to have a life beyond the age of 14!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                The Late Sixties, Early Sixties, when I was struggling with Math.  I may have been a bright kid, but not as much as I should or could have been in Math and Science. These sessions helped, but for both of us, it was sheer torture.  Still, I would not have had it any other way.  Eventually, I sailed on my own, where, unexpectedly, I managed to ace Geometry.

                                                  Woodstock, The Movie--The film was rated "R," and, even at 14, I looked all of 10 or 12, so there was no way I was getting in on my own.  My father, strictly conservative, sat through this documentary, probably suffering in silence, as I, the rebel left wing teen, cheered the music on, yelled out, with Joe Cocker and the young audience, "Gimme an F.....!," and yelling "Right On!," every time I got the chance.   I don't know how he got through it, but it is one of my treasured memories.

                                                   High School--Not much to say.  I was either up in my room, working, or at school taking tests, working on plays, or the choir and newspaper.  I came and went in a way hard for my parents to keep up with me, and it was the beginning of that difficult wanting to be independent phase of my life all parents go through with their children.  Though I was theatrical from the get go, my father, like his mother, had his moments.  The funniest was when my friend Doug and I were leaving my house to go somewhere, probably to a movie, and my father and I had been arguing about something.  In exasperation, with him standing on the house stairs, and me walking out the door, I saw him clutch his head in exasperation, and yell, Geez, Tommy, Geez!!!!!!!!!"  This still makes me laugh, though I cannot recall what provoked this.

                                                   College--Two things stand out.  Graduation, which, while there was no question I would make it, was still an exciting moment.  I still have the picture of my mother, father, and godmother, my father's sister, Kathleen, whom all called "Katty," standing alongside me, in my cap and gown, diploma in hand.  One of the treasured moments of my life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  And early in those first weeks, freshman year, when I wanted out, my father drove over from Livingston, NJ, where he worked, to Seton Hall, to talk to me out of dropping out.  Thanks to him, I did not, made it to graduation, and the rest of this history!!!!!!!!!!!  I owe making it to him!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                    "A Chorus Line"--Ah, this.  October 25, 1975.  I was a tender 20.  Once this show, the hottest thing in town, was selling tickets at the Shubert on Broadway, I went in to get a ticket.  My father handed me money, and said to get one for him too.  I was surprised.  I wasn't sure this would be the show for him.  It turned out to be a memorable experience for us both.  We saw the Legendary Original Cast, neither I nor my father forgot being impressed by Donna McKechnie, while I felt I was watching pieces of me all over that stage.  And then there was Sammy Williams' Paul monologue, brilliantly delivered, but, while watching it, I glanced over at my father, because, like Paul, I had  my own secret--having had my very first gay (no other kind, darlings!) experience that week, at college!  My father never looked over, and, while he eventually came to realize I was gay, I don't think he knew what was going on that moment.  I have the seen the show, over the years, at least forty times, most recently earlier, this month, at the Westchester Broadway Dinner Theatre, in Elmsford, NY.  It was a serendipitous tribute to both this experience, and the passing of Sammy Williams, who died on March 17 of this year.  No wonder, on this viewing, I broke down, during "What I Did For Love."

                                                 "Nashville"--Maybe because I was following all the hoopla surrounding "A Chorus Line," Altman's masterpiece, also released in 1975, somehow eluded me.  My recollection is, during the Summer of 1977, having just graduated, I discovered that the Fox Theatre, in Woodbridge, some evening in July, or August, was having a midnight showing of it.  I had my license, and wanted to go--it was only a half hour from our house, but the film was nearly three hours, meaning I would not get out till after 3AM.  Knowing this, my mother, I think, did not want me out on the road that late, so my father went with me.  Midnight screenings were never my thing, even young, but "Nashville" captivated me then, and, has, over the at least other half a dozen times I have seen it.  I never really could make out what my father made of the film, but it prompted us, with my mother, in, I think the Summer of '78. to take a trip to Nashville.  It was JUST like the movie!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                 My Mother's Death--April 2, 1979, the saddest day of both our lives.  The only time I ever saw my father cry, was at the end of the service, as he knelt at her coffin, and said, "Well, that's the end of that chapter."  Indeed, his passing brings hers back to me--how could it not--making this doubly upsetting.  What followed in the years ahead was my trying to find myself, via graduate work at NYU, landing a job at the Library Of Performing Arts, and moving into an apartment of my own, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn on

                                                  December 1, 1983--I was finally on my own.  I recall sitting in my bedroom on December 3, 1983, settled in, watching "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" on TV, crying, not only at that, but at the embarkation of separation from my father.  Later, I found out he had been having the same experience.

                                                   The Next 27 Years--A blur, of work, visits to Florida, the passing of other relations, and my father's declining age and health.  Granted, he was remarkable, but one does get old.  Which eventually resulted in--

                                                    Fall, 2011--When we--my sister and I, plus David, my then partner, now spouse, moved him up from Vero Beach, Florida, where he had lived since 1984,  to Villa St. Martha, in Downingtown, PA.  He lasted seven years there, and had not influenza and pneumonia invaded him during the Holidays, he might still be here.

                                                     Last Looks--David and I were ill during this past Christmas, and the Villa was in lock down mode.  So we did not get to visit my father, who had had some kind of event-- a stroke--in early December, which made him dependent and wheelchair bound.  But on our eventual visit, in mid-January, he rallied, maybe because, he knew, as I did, it was our last time together on Earth.  As I left that day, I recall us just looking at each other, saying all we need to say, with our eyes.  I wish he was here to look at, now.

                                                      I am probably leaving things out--my fearlessness on public park merry-go rounds, where I would ride practically upside down, while my father watched, ready to step in, but not knowing what to make of this, decorating at Christmas every year, Fourth of July at Edna and Jimmy's, and cookouts and relative visits too numerous to mention.

                                                        My father was lucky, and amazing.  Lucky to have been blest with so many people around him, and amazing for living to see my complete evolution from a premature infant, whose survival was questioned, through all my schooling, my entire work life to retirement, and my marriage to a gay man.  The latter were never discussed, but I have a feeling he was aware.    When I introduced him to David, the last thing he said to him was, meaning me, "Take care of him."

                                                          I can barely see through the tears.  How to end this post, beyond saying I am broken, but grateful for all I have that remains--David, my memories, family and friends. For once, I am lost for a ringing phrase.

                                       This is the plaque of my father, when he was inducted into Fordham's Athletic Hall Of Fame, back in 2006.   I will end this post with the school's motto--

                                                    "Sapienta et Doctoria"

                                                   And, of course, that my father Rest In Peace. He earned it!!!!!!!!!!!!