I lost my first close friend last week, Lamar Hooker passed away at age 84 of Parkinson’s disease.
I’ve lost plenty of good acquaintances. I lost a college roommate to cancer, but we had fallen out of touch. He died in New York where he was a banker. I didn’t know for two years. That’s New York for you.
They say you are born to your family but you choose your friends. I recall how my father lost his best friend to a car wreck — a head-on collision on a Delta two-lane highway, leaving a wife and four young girls. My father was devastated and became a father figure to the girls.
Lamar had been sick for several years, the slow grind of Parkinson’s. My friend Bob Crisler and I had planned to visit him in Kosciusko on his birthday a few weeks before his death. We had no idea he was on his deathbed. I tried his cell phone, no answer. I called his home phone, out of service.
Lamar’s wife Gale was texting my office landline, thinking it was my cell phone. Such are the quirks of life.
I feel guilty that I failed to be by Lamar’s side on his deathbed. I wanted to squeeze his hand and tell him how much he meant to me, how much I enjoyed his company and conversation all these years.
I guess I was just too busy to notice. I could have tracked down Gale’s number from my friend Henry LaRose. I could have driven to their home in Kosciusko. If I had taken the time to think, I would have realized something was wrong when he failed to return my phone calls.
Everybody I tell this story to immediately has the same reaction. Don’t blame yourself. These things happen. But I do blame myself. Don’t make the same mistake I did. I hope I have learned my lesson.
Gale asked me to speak at the funeral. I was so eager to talk about Lamar and what he meant to me. But when it came my turn, the preacher looked at me and said, “And now for the reading of the obituary.” So I dutifully read the obituary and sat down, flummoxed, having planned to make some personal comments.
Only when I sat down did I read the order of service which stated, “Reading of the obituary and sharing of memories.” I could have added my personal comments at the end.
As it turned out Vernon Palmer, a Tulane University law professor who had been awarded France’s Legion of Honor, shared his memories. He arrived in the nick of time, having had car trouble. He said all the things I wanted to say.
Vernon Palmer said something like; “Every one of you are here because you know Lamar Hooker. And having known Lamar, there is nothing more I can say. Because if you knew Lamar, you knew how special he was.”
So out of all the people in the world, how did Lamar Hooker, 20 years my senior, become such a dear friend?
For one thing, he was genuinely fascinated by people from all walks of life. So many people brush others off and get caught up in their own interests. Not Lamar, he saw each person as an endless sea of thoughts, emotions, experiences and insights. That may be the ultimate manifestation of loving others as much as yourself. That captivated me. It was Faulknerian.
And oh what a storyteller he was. His life seemed like an endless series of mysterious transpirations and enchanting characters. I have had a pretty robust life but it seemed like nothing compared to Lamar.
Some may say he embellished. Indeed, he did have the talent for conversational flourish, but I didn’t care. He was immensely entertaining. And over the years, I found almost all of what he said to be true, unbelievable though it was. He knew every skeleton in every closet. His knowledge of Mississippi characters was right up there with Bob Archer.
The son of a Presbyterian minister, Lamar was deeply religious and knew the Bible inside and out. But his faith wasn’t the least bit rote. Lamar was the ultimate intellectual, having read just about every book worth reading. His memory was ironclad.
“What are your views on eschatology,” he asked me soon after we met. Harvard educated, I was embarrassed to admit I had no idea what the word meant. Lamar not only knew the meaning of the word, but could talk about the various interpretations and theories for hours.
Lamar was a bit of a rogue when we first met. Handsome and charming, he was quite the ladies’ man. When he became engaged to Gale, I worried those inclinations would persist. But they didn’t. Once those marriage vows were sealed, I never knew him to stray. In that regard, he was a role model for me.
Having gone to Harvard and lived for years in New York City, I wasn’t used to brilliant people being profound believers. I had discovered that intellectualism often coincided with disbelief. Lamar divested me of that provincial view and was instrumental in the progress of my faith and understanding of Christianity.
Of course, there was the tennis. Hours and hours of singles matches between us. He was the master and I was the apprentice. I soaked up his court knowledge, amazed that what I thought was a simple game was infinitely complex. Lamar gave me a lifelong love for tennis.
He loved to tell people the time we were engaged in a serious third set tiebreaker. On a crucial point, I fell. A fall in tennis stops play and the point ends. “But not Wyatt,” he would say with a gleam of admiration in his eye. “Not only did he get up and finish the point, he won it!” That impressed Lamar to no end.
If I told all the Lamar stories I could tell, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the book I could write. Our lives were intertwined in significant and improbable ways.
Two weeks ago, I had this urge to drive to Texas and see the solar eclipse. I just knew something significant was about to happen. Days after I returned, Lamar died. I immediately recalled flying with him, my son Lawrence and Kemal Sanli to Kentucky to see the total eclipse of 2017. The trip was at his urging. When the moon darkened the sun, it was a defining spiritual moment in my life.
After the funeral, Lamar’s son Scott texted me: “I remember him dragging us all over the state and he would pull up to a house of a friend he hadn't seen in 10 years. At 8 or 9 I couldn't fathom it. On one occasion the wife of a friend informed Dad that she was a widow. Dad looked at her and just said 'I wasn't done talking to him yet.' They hugged and we left. I'm feeling the same way right now.”
Oh, Lamar, I wasn’t done talking to you yet.
