By Bob Jones
Not to make loss beautiful,
But to make loss the place
Where beauty starts.
These are the first lines of a poem by Gregory Orr, an American poet of some note. The poem was sent to me by Larry Robinson, Sebastopol’s former mayor and now host of Poetry Lovers, by which he emails a poem each day to those who want to be on his list.
The poem arrived in my inbox the day after Tony Anello’s funeral mass and burial at which close to 200 of us spent the better part of last Wednesday. The poem helped me realize I had been part of something both sad and beautiful the day before.
Tony Anello was, if not larger than life, then very much the same size. With all that has been written about him recently and over the years, people are aware of his varied accomplishments and vocations from rodeo calf roper to fruit and vegetable merchant, to construction worker, truck driver, excavator seated in his own backhoe, and leading Bodega Bay fisherman.
Through most of this, Tony was also a firefighter, beginning as a volunteer in the Guerneville Fire Department in 1967. He went on the get EMT certification and became an equipment engineer, a captain, a training officer, battalion chief, union steward and director of two fire departments. Tony is quoted as saying he accomplished everything he wanted to in life, a beautiful thing in itself.
But as the day went on, I realized there was even more. Tony’s expanded family and large circle of friends showed themselves to have been influenced by the same spirit that dwelt in Tony throughout his days. They are articulate and demonstrative in their love and good feeling for one another. They are friends to a huge number of us, dedicated to their work and respectful of the work of others, and fully open to laughter and fond memories that, though this doesn’t wash away the sorrow, can open upon beautiful moments.
Such moments happened again and again throughout the day. Carol, Tony’s wife of 58 years, must have been hugged several hundred times as we moved from Sebastopol’s St. Sebastian’s Catholic Church to the burial at Pleasant Hills Memorial Park and then on to the reception at the Gold Ridge Fire Station.
Tony’s grave is surrounded by trees tinged with autumn amber—serenely beautiful. There a simple ritual was performed by members of four fire companies, each one in dress black uniform and wearing white gloves. The casket and pallbearers, all of them firefighters, and the retinue of their colleagues were led by a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.” Everything was done with such care, such respect, and such discernible devotion to their calling and to one another, it was possible to see that, yes, beauties can arise in the midst of sorrow.
Then it was a stroll down the road to the fire station, where long tables decorated with flowers filled the ample space. Tony’s family and firefighting friends had put this all together the night before. They served us really good firefighter’s fare, chicken, beef, vegetables, potatoes, salad, all in delicious sauces. Firefighters take pride in their cooking, I was told, and it was surely the case that day.
Then we had the good words, the riotous memories, the close calls, the lumber yard fire in Guerneville some years ago that was a real doozie and could have spread into the entire town, but it didn’t because people in that room had prevented it. Then we had pictures flashed on a large screen: Tony roping calves, Tony and Carol on their wedding day, the babies coming along, the family singing and dancing together, doing skits together, everyone working hard at one or more tasks, and, at the same time, living it up every chance they had. These pictures of honest, down-home happiness were another beauty of the day.
Finally, late in the afternoon, the overcast sky thickening, we walked back through the cemetery to our car. We stepped across, around or, I’m afraid, upon many graves, and I began to read the names on the gravestones. There were English names, Irish names, Welsh names like Jones and Davis, French names, German names, yes, many Italian names, and also Asian names—one gravestone all in Chinese characters, no English at all—Hispanic names, names native to every continent and many nations around this world. And all these dear ones were resting in peace together there. This seemed to me a summary of the beauties and graces that had come my way on that day of sorrow, and I was moved.
Not to make loss beautiful,
But to make loss the place
Where beauty starts.
It happens, folks, and we can be grateful it is so.
Bob Jones has written his column, “Keeping the Faith,” for local weeklies in west county for more than 50 years. He was pastor of the Guerneville and Monte Rio Community Churches for 20 years, living in Guerneville since 1966.
Bob, your heartfelt story brought a flood of memories and renewed appreciation for the Beauty and Sorrow threaded through my life. Deep thanks.
I know of no one more gifted as a writer and keeper of faith than Rev. Jones to lead us through a day or a moment full of beauty and sorrow. Thank you, Bob and to The Sebastopol Times.