Lawrence O. Frye
September 11, 1934 – July 4, 1994
from my father’s poem, “Raindrops”
All this performed inland, in the heartland,
in a garden still dry, untended here and there,
where the brambles have touched a passing hand,
extended toward a blossom white withholding
future fruit, a berry tart but staining
fingers with remembrance dark.
– Lawrence O. Frye (3 June 1994)
Caught Between Familiarity and the Unknown
circa 1999, Kara Frye Krauze
But there are no shoulds, not here, not anymore, there is no might-have-been, there is just this stunning range of possibilities missed, ambiguities intact, and a man marching forward, trying here and there to turn back, unsuccessful. Instead, he became trapped by his own desires and despair, depression commingling with circumstance, emotions and events beyond his grasp, so that he seemed insistently to urge forth his own demise, all the while wishing for it to be otherwise, as well it might have been.
This was not fate, not destiny; it was a series of errors, multiple sorrows, a bio-chemical cocktail; a travesty, a tragedy, not a life’s design.
Zichrono Livracha. May his memory be a blessing.