It wasn’t the usual memorial service with speeches and hymns. But then again, he wasn’t the usual sort for a usual memorial. What Bill would like for his send-off was a grand party. A party with lots of beer, a country guitar, trophies on display and his large community to attend the send-off. And so, on a perfect summer day with a large tent, beer donated by an old friend’s brewery, a catered feast and a barn transformed for the day into “The Museum to Bill,” that’s what his family did. They produced a proper party send-off, complete with a black powder muzzleloader salute and created — let’s call it — “A Museum to Bill.”
First the salute. It was the traditional way Bill’s hunting group ended their season. Hunters raised their guns and fired into the air. And so for this proper memorial for Bill, 20 or more of his cohort stood in solemn line, readied their guns and aimed into the woods with the resulting shock wave of triumphant noise that I’m sure Bill heard wherever he is. (Though I covered my ears.)
And then of course, the museum to exhibit the lifework of this man — the many things he built, achieved and revered. Picture this “Museum to Bill,” set in a barn newly built by his son with help from a community of craftspeople. The exhibits were arrayed inside the wood-framed, two-story structure with burnt pine siding, a tall cupola and a weather vane of a copper-burnished heron atop the roof. And just picture this masterful structure, nestled into the surrounding hills, becoming home to artifacts that hold the recollections of a life. There are photo montages, a young boy with a fish. An older man with a fish, a father and son with two fish. And campfire nights and hunting camps, a working saw mill and many dogs, buddies, and generations of family. An entire wall of Bill’s medals and trophies are there too, including his seven first-place finishes in the Athol Rat Race. And the very canoes, they too are on exhibit. Graceful, sleek boats crafted by Bill, but not only by Bill, by Tom and Bill, a father and son design team building their canoes and wooden paddles. An early example was a paddle shaped for an 8-year-old’s hand, a small boy still learning his skills. The boats and paddles marked the beginning of a long partnership of craftsmanship, of knowing the waters, the woods, the mountains and all its critters. In a separate wing of the museum are the mounts — the trophy heads of deer, elk, bobcat, bear. They make me sad, I confess but I’ve come to respect the skills and conservative contributions of these local hunters. The Museum of Bill is a testimony to an incredible collaboration of all this and to generations, the ones before and the ones to come who love the land and their home.
“He was an influencer,” an old friend said. “Not the influencer type of social media, but the type of influencer that saves a life.” He was referring to the way Bill taught him to know the water and how to find peace inside a roiling selfhood. A true resource and guide in a troubled time. A life, not an easy life for one or the other, but a life worth celebrating. And hundreds did celebrate because the community was invited, not personally, not with printed invites or evites more like word of mouth. His community, the ones who showed up to help erect the tent, set out the chairs, contribute the photographs. The ones who held memories of Bill adventures in their hearts. And the ones who recited with glee a few of the misadventures. In this time of fractured communities, suspicious and conflicted communities, Bill’s community was healing. That’s what I most wanted to say here that there is a message and it’s a message of healing. In the sunshine and blue sky, the beat and twang of guitar, the songs of travel and yearning, the crowd buzzed with friendliness. They were young and old, related and not related, sober and with beer in hand; they mingled, ate and shared grateful bear hugs. I’d say Bill’s final “influence,”under the proud and artful hands of his children and grandchildren, was to remind us that that community is still possible. And that it’s what we do best.
Ruth Charney lives in Greenfield.