Canzano: The gift of another Christmas Day
A reader with a message.
Paul Cormier wrote his own obituary. He’s still alive, mind you. He updates it periodically and provides his three daughters with a fresh copy. For decades, he’s also had a running list of “Paul-bearers” who will carry his casket when the time comes.
“Pleased as punch to tell anyone who will listen,” his daughter, Leslie, told me on Christmas Eve.
Paul is 81.
I don’t know what you’re doing on Christmas Day. But I can tell you that I’ll think a little about Paul. He’s been a loyal reader of my column for more than 20 years and sends me notes all the time. Last week, I pulled off the freeway near Salem, parked, and walked through the doors of the assisted living community where he and his wife, Sandi, live.
Paul has cancer.
It’s invaded and spread throughout his body.
He endured six rounds of chemotherapy earlier this year. Doctors recently called off treatments and gave him three months to live. He’s relieved that all that is behind him. Now, it’s mostly about managing pain.
He wakes, eats something for breakfast, pops a couple of painkillers, takes morphine, visits with his wife and friends, and then settles in to read my column and drop me an email.
Paul attended the University of Oregon. He graduated in 1965 with a degree from the School of Journalism. He had a stint as a copy editor at the Amarillo (Texas) Daily News. For a spell, he was also an information officer in the Air Force.
He’s a careful reader.
“You’re missing something after ‘at’ late in the column,” he wrote me once.
“The paragraph beginning ‘Pac-12’ has a problem,” he offered another time.
“Should be ‘won’, not ‘win,’” he corrected.
Paul and his wife are retired and on a fixed income. Years ago, they both worked for the phone company. It’s where they met and fell in love. Later, he went to work for banks that provided small-business loans, and even later, the USDA’s rural development agency.
He’s among the many senior citizens who read my column courtesy of an anonymous donation from a fellow reader. He’s grateful for that generosity. The donated subscription keeps him connected to this community and gives him purpose.
Shortly after I launched this independent endeavor, Paul wrote and told me I was making too many careless mistakes. He was catching typos and cleaning up my copy. He appointed himself as the chief copy editor. It’s a volunteer job he’s performed admirably. However, he says he’s struggled with keeping up with the editing in recent months while juggling the cancer treatments.
“Not sure I provide value anymore,” he wrote to me in late October.
I assured him he did.
He’s a gifted copy editor. He catches small, significant mistakes like a hockey goalie stops pucks. His suggestions are often small and subtle, but he does what a good editor should do — he leaves the work better than he found it.
There’s a lot to complain about. College football is messy. The sports calendar is crowded. Greed and money drive the decisions. It’s easy to slip into a self-induced trance and adopt a negative mindset. The vortex of disappointment and complaint is out there, arms open.
Then, Paul drops you a quick note to tell you his cancer is back and spreading rapidly. This may be his final Christmas, he says. It hits like a bag of rocks. Paul provides the update and ends it with, “Bad news is similar to wiping your a** with a hula hoop — there’s just no end to it.”
So yeah.
I went to see Paul after all these years of trading emails last weekend. I was headed to the Oregon-James Madison College Football Playoff game last Saturday afternoon. Southbound traffic on Interstate-5 was crawling toward Eugene. I pulled off the freeway, mapped my way to his assisted-living home, and parked in a visitor spot. My old friend was standing in the lobby, smiling, and waiting with a cold drink in a plastic cup.
“I got you a rootbeer,” he said.
We sat on a sofa in front of a giant fireplace, talking. Paul glowed when he spoke about his children and grandchildren. He’s so proud. Then, he pulled out a novel — Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove — and we discussed that book for a bit. Then, we talked about Ernest Hemingway, whom I quote frequently in this space.
“I love Hemingway,” Paul said.
Two of his grandchildren stopped by.
“Your grandpa is a rock star,” I told them.
After 25 minutes, Paul rose, telling me I’d better get back on the freeway and head toward Eugene. He didn’t want me to be late for the CFP kickoff at Autzen Stadium.
“You’ve got a column to write,” he said.
Paul tried to shake my hand as we parted ways in the doorway. I hugged the guy. I did so knowing that it might be the only chance I’d get to thank him. I’m grateful that he’s been out there, reading for so long. He’s made the work better. I also felt guilty that I’d waited so long to meet him. I should have taken up some of his time when it was less fleeting.
Paul dropped me a note earlier this month.
“While my situation isn’t ideal,” he wrote, “I’m blessed with a very supportive family and a good medical team. I know there are many others who suffer with a great amount of pain and fight these battles alone.”
I’ve said a number of times that I’m envious of people who have something tangible to show for their work day. A friend of mine, Rick McCutcheon, owns a company that designs and builds retaining walls, patios, driveways, and walkways. He pours miles of concrete. At the end of a long day, Rick and his sons can look over their shoulders and see what they’ve accomplished.
It’s right there, for the world to see.
Me?
I write a sports column. I host a radio show. I love what I do, but it’s a delicate dance. The audio and video podcasts remain behind, I suppose. My words are captured in print, too, on a website. But my work floats toward the clouds and evaporates into the ether at the end of most days. Then, I start over the following morning.
I love working for you. It works for me. I’ve said that frequently since launching this independent writing endeavor. Being in a direct relationship with you has been a delightful and unexpected byproduct. My meeting with Paul hammered that point home. I called him on Christmas Eve at 6 p.m. to see how he was doing.
“I had a really bad day,” he reported on the other end of the phone. “I’m already in bed. I’m hoping Christmas Day will be better.”
During our visit he didn’t really want to talk about his treatments. He was happy to chat about good books and college football, sit by the fire for a bit, and let the conversation go where it needed to go.
Three months to live? What would I do with a timeline like that? How would I cope? One last Christmas? Would I savor the laughter? Tell the kids to open the presents a little more slowly? Would I sleep? It makes you think.
“I’m good with it,” he told me as we sat. “I’ve lived long enough.”
His wife, Sandi, stopped by toward the end of our visit to say hello. I’m glad they have each other. They’ve been married 59 years. Three daughters, eight grandchildren, and two great grandchildren. And I suppose I should finish this column with a story that Paul might tell you himself should you meet him.
In the lead-up to their wedding in April of 1966, the couple was driving home after the rehearsal dinner. Paul hatched a wild idea. They’d driven past a local radio station on the way to dinner. So he pulled into the parking lot on the way home, tried the front door of the station, and found it unlocked.
The couple walked inside, made their way to the studio, and talked with the disc jockey who was working that night. They were set to be married the following day, Paul explained to the DJ. He’d already received his orders and would be leaving for the Air Force shortly after that, he added.
The couple asked the radio host if he wouldn’t mind playing “The Hawaiian Wedding Song” by Andy Williams. The DJ told them he’d think about it. Then, they drove home.
Paul Cormier and Sandra Hunter got married the following day. It was a Catholic wedding. Everyone said it was a beautiful event. Paul and Sandi must have looked around the room and beamed with pride. They were just beginning, after all. The first day of the rest of their lives was unfolding in front of them.
I can also tell you what happened the night before they made their vows. The couple sat in the car in the driveway of Sandi’s childhood home. They had smiles on their faces as they listened to Andy Williams singing that Hawaiian love song on the car radio.
The music never sounded so sweet.
My daughter must be cutting onions in the kitchen.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Merry Christmas, John. Great story. I will be 83 in January. Grateful for good health, but very aware of my unavoidable mortality. Age has a way of making one more thankful for a loving family, dear friends (although 3 of my best passed this year) and gifted writers like you. Thank you.