Thomas Sullivan

Flamingo Frank would hate it if I wrote his obituary, especially with black crepe hung all over it. Much too dreary. But early on the dawn of August 2, 2008 — by his own decision, you can be quite certain — Frank T. Wydra decided he’d had enough of wrestling with pancreatic cancer and told the subversive processes that were racking his body, “Okay, you want it, you got it.” He could do that because his physical presence was the least of his impact on the world around him, whereas his thoughts and his spirit will trump the grave, and so on that Saturday morning my friend and yours Flamingo Frank awoke to eternity.

Not to be outdone by John Barrymore and Errol Flynn (if you know that legendary wake story), Frank did not take his funeral home viewing lying down — strictly speaking. He was propped up a bit, the old familiar smile on his lips, with a glass of Jack in his right hand next to a bottle of same in the coffin and a silver dollar in the fingers of his left. We sang his favorite songs and hymns, as per his wishes, and spoke extemporaneously. It was the most warm and sincere wake I’ve ever seen. The assembled celebrants were eclectic, as you might imagine, ranging from enormously successful business magnates to creative types like Frank’s brother Jim, a well-known bluesman who has backed Led Zeppelin and is one of the few white men to play with Muddy Waters and Jimi Hendrix. But there were formal moments of great poignancy as well, such as when Frank was buried with full military honors and the flag was folded with ritual precision and delivered to his wife by a kneeling soldier “…from a grateful nation.” Flamingo Frank, be it known, was to organize the taking out of the missiles in the Cuban missile crisis, had the invasion not been aborted. His full military honors burial came about through presidential executive order and included a 21-gun salute and Taps. Incidentally, our colleague Bobby Jones of Storytellers was also part of the second wave in the Cuban missile crisis, though he and Frank did not know that about each other until recently.

Flamingo Frank never wasted a moment of his life. He spent his time making impossible things happen and was far too honest to give a single moment being anyone but his real and true self. He was also one of the happiest and most successful people I’ve ever known.

A number of mourners/celebrants have asked if there is a recording or transcript of the funeral oration I gave, and there is not so far as I know. It was given spontaneously at the wake a night early when we heard that the priests would limit my eulogy at the funeral to a couple of minutes. Ah, Rome’s rituals! But I knew pretty much what I wanted to say and the memory is vivid, reinforced by many discussions afterward, so I’ll attempt here to write down a shortened facsimile with maybe a few gaps and compressions. It should also be added about this column that it will delay by one month the second column about Glenn Frey and the Crosslake concert at Manhattan Beach. The first one in the series last month brought in more mail than ever before, and there is a paragraph about the concert in this month’s newsletter, which you can get free by request at: mn333mn@earthLink.net

Frank’s Funeral Oration

[I won’t attempt to render the opener which began with some stuff about young Jack, Frank’s grandson who had just spoken, and then talking to Flamingo, who was behind me with that bottle of Jack Daniels, the glass, and a silver dollar in the coffin. You had to be there.]

“…The good news is that Frank is entirely possible in eternity. That’s because he is consistent with the spirit of the Universe, which is to think beyond yourself, to outgrow yourself, to give yourself unstintingly to whatever you do and wherever you are. Don’t give until it hurts — that implies keeping score — give until it stops hurting. That’s who Frank was. You can’t fake what you feel and who you are over the long haul. You have to be genuine and totally honest about that. Frank was the real deal. Frank IS the real deal. He lived the kind of life that won’t go away as long as we survive him. And he’s still giving to us. He may have just stepped into the next room, but the example of attitude and problem-solving he left behind shines through the doorway like a beacon.

“‘Chin up, no regrets!’ That was his mantra. And that’s what we’re all trying to ride on, right now. We don’t want to give him up in our presence; but we can have him in our memories and in our life’s lessons. Frank was and is a sustainer. You need only look around at this assembly to see the quality of his work and his life. A wife, children, grandchildren, brothers, friends — radiant and successful human beings all, on productive journeys through this world. In some ways he was a kind of king, a hub, but a benevolent king and a resource hub. Kings collect tribute, Frank gave it. He took little for himself.

“In fact, it was hard to give to Frank. He wouldn’t suffer the spotlight to remain on himself. And he was a terrific audience for anyone with an out-of-control ego who did like the spotlight. He and I were made for each other! I’d dance, cartwheel, do push-ups, and he’d smile politely and watch. But if I said something nice about him — and I tried very hard not to do that often — he would wiggle out of it or find a way to turn it around. The only way you could give to him was if it was a joke. The miserable gifts I did give him were always jokes, and that’s what he loved about them. No one took a joke better than Flamingo Frank.

“Flamingo…that name came about because of one of those miserable gifts — a pair of cheap pink plastic lawn flamingos I brought to the housewarming in Clarkston. Wrapped in newspaper. I think Karen got as big a kick out of it as I did watching Frank grin like a Cheshire cat, oohing and aahing as he tried delicately to remove the newsprint like he was going to find a Fabergé egg. Before that there was the Sully Picasso painting I had the temerity to bring into the house of one of America’s foremost painters [Karen Wydra]. It was a stick figure on an enormous canvas. He couldn’t find a place to hang it, so he put it out at the curb for the whole world to see. Unfortunately some crazy guys in a city truck mistook it for trash and hauled it away. And after the flamingos there was the varsity jacket hanging on the clearance rack of a sport shop. Just one little flaw that made it hard to sell. The word BUFFALO was emblazoned across the back. Perfect! Flamingo…Buffalo — I could see that. And only five bucks. Twice what I wanted to spend, but what the heck… Flamingo Frank: ever the gentleman, ever the host, the benefactor. And still… all those things. That’s his legacy.

“When FRANK gave, on the other hand, it was like a stealth bomber run. He did it so under the radar that you didn’t know it was happening. [Here I told the lengthy wine story that I’ve told elsewhere.]

“I don’t know what comes next, but it must be all right. Because it happens to everyone. The last time I saw Frank, he spoke about ‘change.’ Said that that was all there was – ‘change.’ To be honest, he said it with a little dismay. But the more I thought about it, the more it struck me that all his success and happiness in life had come about because of his openness to change. I know of no one less enslaved by mindless rules or social pressure to conform one’s thinking. He examined every habit, every value, every restriction, and always found the most honest and simple solutions. I remember a particular vacation in the Bahamas where he had a list of rules and the first one was that there were no rules. I forget how he got around the fact that the list went on, but the point he was making was that this was a vacation for everyone and that we had to work cooperatively on the mundane parts of daily living so that no one was burdened with anyone else’s life. We get it, Frank. Change. No rules. Do not get so bogged down in the way things are that you can’t see the way things can be.

“I had a sister, and after I met Frank, I had a brother. I lost my sister. Yes, she died too young, but I mean I lost her. We were close in some ways, but I never went to see her. And I remember driving back from speaking at Western Writers of America’s national conference in Arkansas and coming within 200 miles of her house. I could’ve turned east… I could’ve taken that first star to the right and been parked in her drive by morning. But it was late at night, and I was in the middle of an 18 hour haul, so I kept heading home. Two weeks later my sister was dead. [Let me skip over the pathetic story of trying to record a tape she wanted of me playing the T-sax and then digging a shallow grave with a garden spade in the middle of winter to bury it in a remote place I call the White Isle.] In my mind the White Isle is where my sister is, and that’s how I keep her in my life. I’d like to make an appeal here. If Frank Wydra has had an impact on your life, consider finding a tangible way to keep him there. It could be a physical symbol or something you do or a place you go. I’m going to buy the cheapest pink plastic flamingo I can find and put it in an inaccessible place I know about at Elm Creek. It’s bounded by streams with no bridges, an isolated island I’ll call The Gonquin — after Frank’s reference to the Algonquin table of literary note, whose fame he added to with his columns on StorytellersUnplugged.com. He was always the only living character in the Algonquin Room, and in his last column he intended to cross over and join the others. So The Gonquin will be sort of his seat at the table. Maybe someday in some way we will re-visit surf from new places crashing on old shores, and stars as big as spotlights spangling the night, and pink flamingos, but until then I’ll put a plastic pink flamingo in that picturesque spot at Elm Creek where no one else goes, and in my mind and my heart that will be where I will visit my brother. And, of course, I’ll try to live his open-mindedness every day.

“Frank was a consummate collector, and now he’s collected all the days of his life. He’s analyzed them and crunched the numbers and gotten his ducks in a row. You and me — his family and friends — we’re his ducks, because he collected people too. We are one of Frank’s collections. He knows we won’t stay in line. But that’s okay. Frank likes a challenge. I’m waiting for the clouds to open up and some spot advice to come down in Frank’s elegant voice and manner. Count on me to give him a rough time. – ‘What’s that, Frank?’ He’s laughing at me. Telling me it’s time to shut up and get off the stage. ‘Okay, Frank, but feel free to re-visit anytime. In your own unique way, of course. Because as we all know after your time in our lives and our time in yours…there are no rules.’”

Thomas “Sully” Sullivan
http://www.thomassullivanauthor.com/