George Zinnemann - RIP

My sweet, wonderful George died. The only man I've ever loved who loved me and asked for nothing. I am utterly sad - bereft. It does not matter how old he was. It does not matter how it happened. All that matters is that he is gone - irretrievable y gone. And my folly is ever so apparent now - I judge myself. I do not fare well. But few of us would.

George, with his thin mustache, smiling lips, high cheekbones, and white hair; penetrating blue eyes that could accuse, condone, condemn, or wrinkle with humor. I never felt as if I had his full attention; as if some other occupation was occurring simultaneously; as if he were writing as we were talking, astutely observing and gathering material; discerning meaning and nuance; and never really putting all that much importance into it - at least on the surface of it.

George had an engaging writing style. On the surface, he may be speaking of the superstitions of Friday, the 13th, but the underbelly was the story was always deeper -- more true.

On the occasion of having spent a decade with my friends at Ginger Cove, sharing stories, memoirs, poetry, and laughter, George organized a surprise celebration. I was embarrassed because with every writing session at Ginger Cove, I learn more than I can teach. Experience is a demanding school and the lessons linger. George's lesson will last me a lifetime. George, I raise my glass to you.