Stormin’ Norman
Last week, a dear friend of my husband’s (and mine, via marital osmosis and mutual preference) passed away unexpectedly.
Norm was the sort of guy you immediately felt comfortable around, because he made you feel that way. It didn’t matter if you’d just met him or hadn’t seen him in years, he actually listened to what you had to say, with the best sense of humor and this vibrant, electric energy. If Norm said you were cool, you were cool.
When our firstborn son was a baby, Norm saw a photo of him with his fist beside his head, and he exclaimed, (in true Norm fashion), “Power to the PEOPLE, little man!” Through the years, that’s how he always remembered our boy, now nine years old.
Sadly, my boys don’t remember Norm; usually we stayed home while Dan went out with him to watch a college basketball game every March. Such is life; things get busy, you get caught up in your routines, you let too much time go in between get-togethers.
I was in Chicago with friends the weekend of Norm’s visitation and funeral. My husband and I agreed that only he would go, and while I wanted to attend, I thought it would be a nice opportunity for him to reconnect to a very important part of his past–his days as a morning drive time sports radio producer. That job didn’t bring him a great deal of money, but it gave him so much more, including work he adored and more than one friendship that lasted years after the job ended, especially with Norm. I wanted him to focus on his friend and his past without having to worry about me.
When Dan told me about the funeral service, I was grateful I didn’t attend. Not because I didn’t want to, but because one of his two grown daughters put together a handful of Norm’s favorite songs that played at the end of the service as mourners left the church.
One of those songs made my husband smile, because he gave Norm so much crap for liking it: Simply Red’s “Holding Back the Years.”
“I love that song!” I cried when he shared this anecdote. “I’m going to download it from iTunes right now!”
“I hate that song!” he said, shaking his head. He said Norm would lean back in his chair in the studio and close his eyes while Dan mocked him as he listened.
“I don’t care; I’m getting it anyway,” I said.
I also read that Norm loved Boz Scaggs, so I downloaded a few of his songs, too.
He’ll live to regret ever buying me an itunes gift card. But maybe he’ll also appreciate that every time one of those songs plays, I’ll think of Norm, and that shared friendship with my husband.
My favorite Norm memory? He once told my husband that he liked hearing from him because he genuinely cared how he he was doing, as opposed to asking him for something. When Dan arrived at the visitation, Norm’s wife saw him and said, “I’m so glad you’re here; Norm loved you!”
Really, is there anything more anyone could want in a friendship?
More of Norm’s favorite songs: “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago (my very first ever FAVORITE SONG from when I was seven years old; I distinctly remember hovering by the stereo waiting for WCLR to play it. I’d wait for hours, and when it came on, everyone in the house had to be completely silent while I listened), “Days Like This” by Van Morrison (hold me) and “Wishing You Were Here,” also by Chicago (hold me while I wail).
I don’t know about you, but had I been at that service, I’d have been a blubbering, sobbing mess. Where Dan laughed about ribbing his former radio host, I’d have probably embarrassed everyone by openly–and very loudly–weeping.
This photo was taken the day before Norm’s funeral while my friends and I were wandering Michigan Avenue. The 4th Presbyterian Church is located across from the John Hancock Center. I’d first photographed this courtyard as a young woman–on black and white film, of course–and hadn’t really paid it any mind for the 20 years since, even when I’d stroll past it nearly every day while working in that neighborhood in the late 1990s. When my husband came downtown for the service, he mentioned the location of the church and my heart skipped a beat. I was just there! I said. One day it’s a photographer’s fancy, the next, a place for family and friends to bid farewell.
I downloaded those songs from Norm’s service, listened to each of them, and thought of him. I thought of Norm’s family, wishing he was here. And I cried.
