Bernice Zerr

Memories of Bernice go back to her wedding to George. I recall that Karen and I were in the wedding party. Karen as the flower girl and myself as the ring bearer. Bernice was so lovely. That would have been the picture I would have chosen for the memorial photograph. I recall George was (and maybe this memory is faulty) a Captain in the Air Force, so, the wedding ceremony had military uniforms, and, I recall swords and the like. Very formal and official. I guess, this being the first wedding I had ever been to and, having to wear a tuxedo, the day seemed just magical. Wedding cake always seems to taste better than birthday cake. I do remember our family visiting George and Bernice at an air force base someplace south (Nevada?) not long afterward, and my coveting George's three-speed bicycle that he subsequently gave to me when they moved to Kent. I rode that bicycle for years, from grade school (not high school, one didn't ride bikes, one walked) and through all of my college years in Seattle until leaving for Virginia in 1981. So, always, in riding that bike, a sense of connection to them and their generosity. I remember visiting Bernice and George at their place in Kent. Many times with my parents when there were trips over to Seattle to see the grandparents and Bernice and George, Eric, Linda, and Deb. Bernice -- always gracious and kind and thoughtful.... and present. I felt that she gave her full attention to me when we spoke. Most people don't. And, was there, at some point, a camping trip to Ohanapecosh in the Mt. Rainer National Park where the families met up? All I can recall is the smoke from the fire, toasted marshmallows, and, the smell of fir trees and the damp ground. And, probably the most vivid memories, were of the first year I was at the U of W, living with the Grandparents in Seattle for that first fall quarter, and driving over to be with George and Bernice on some of the weekends to be with their family (and remembering Eric having the Peter Frampton album -- Frampton Comes Alive! -- do you feel like I do?). Those first years away from my parents, turbulent in some respects, working through my own sense of myself and what to believe, or not, and, talking with Bernice about those issues. She had tremendous focus and caring concern. Then, that spring, now living on campus at the U of W, I couldn't afford the insurance on the car, and, that was the end of driving over to Kent (and being reacquainted with the three-speed bike). I don't remember ever going back to the place in Kent. Sigh. And, then, not much connection. I think the only times I remember seeing Bernice was at Barbara Baumgartner's funeral, and, at George's funeral. Big gaps in time. Sigh, again. Anyway, this bit of one of T. S. Eliot's poems comes to mind -- "Home is where one starts from. As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. There is a time for the evening under starlight, A time for the evening under lamplight (The evening with the photograph album). Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning." So, the evening with the photograph album (in my mind). In the bustle of those meals that the Baumgartners and the Zerrs had together, how to capture those particular moments? Bernice had a particular kind of laughter that came with the delight in things -- at times of discovery or revelation -- when an idea or insight could be conveyed -- in something so simple as the making of rivels -- how the dough is formed -- not too small or too large, before dropping them into the chicken broth.