Requiem
The world is short one candle's light this evening.
In the wee small hours of this morning, a dear man named David Trudell slipped the surly bonds of Earth and departed this mortal coil. Dave was a pilot, a gentleman, and a pretty fair barbershop bass for a fellow with only one lung. He was a longtime member of my chorus, though he had been inactive the past few years due to his failing health. He was a sweet guy who liked to laugh and loved to sing.
Even in his "retirement" from the chorus, Dave and his wife Marty remained as active in the life of the organization as Dave's health allowed. Until the last few months, when Dave's increasing need for care led to her stepping away from her own chorus, Marty would come over to our rehearsals every Monday evening after the ladies called it quits for the night, and watch the last twenty minutes or so of our workout. I always tried to make it a point to ask about Dave, and I could tell the last few times I saw her that things weren't going so well.
When Dave was still active, he and Marty used to join our commute group occasionally for a late dinner after rehearsal. He had a million stories, and knew about that many jokes. Even though you knew he didn't feel that well most of the time, Dave always had a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
When KJ was diagnosed, Dave and Marty — who barely knew her, having only met her on the rare occasion when she accompanied me to a chorus function — sent her a card in the mail almost every week during her chemotherapy. Every card contained a handwritten note of encouragement from the Trudells. That they went to that much effort for someone they knew so little demonstrates the kind of people Dave was, and Marty is. I will never forget their kindness to my wife — in her darkest hours, those little cards and notes were heaven-sent.
By Marty's report, Dave passed from this life peacefully, attended by people who loved him. There are many others of us who, though not at his bedside in his final moments, loved him too.
Dave, my dear friend, you'll be missed.
In fact, you already are.
In the wee small hours of this morning, a dear man named David Trudell slipped the surly bonds of Earth and departed this mortal coil. Dave was a pilot, a gentleman, and a pretty fair barbershop bass for a fellow with only one lung. He was a longtime member of my chorus, though he had been inactive the past few years due to his failing health. He was a sweet guy who liked to laugh and loved to sing.
Even in his "retirement" from the chorus, Dave and his wife Marty remained as active in the life of the organization as Dave's health allowed. Until the last few months, when Dave's increasing need for care led to her stepping away from her own chorus, Marty would come over to our rehearsals every Monday evening after the ladies called it quits for the night, and watch the last twenty minutes or so of our workout. I always tried to make it a point to ask about Dave, and I could tell the last few times I saw her that things weren't going so well.
When Dave was still active, he and Marty used to join our commute group occasionally for a late dinner after rehearsal. He had a million stories, and knew about that many jokes. Even though you knew he didn't feel that well most of the time, Dave always had a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
When KJ was diagnosed, Dave and Marty — who barely knew her, having only met her on the rare occasion when she accompanied me to a chorus function — sent her a card in the mail almost every week during her chemotherapy. Every card contained a handwritten note of encouragement from the Trudells. That they went to that much effort for someone they knew so little demonstrates the kind of people Dave was, and Marty is. I will never forget their kindness to my wife — in her darkest hours, those little cards and notes were heaven-sent.
By Marty's report, Dave passed from this life peacefully, attended by people who loved him. There are many others of us who, though not at his bedside in his final moments, loved him too.
Dave, my dear friend, you'll be missed.
In fact, you already are.
SwanShadow was randomly pounding the keyboard at 11:57 PM
1 insisted on sticking two cents in:
Blessings to the Trudell family in their time of sorrow.
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