In Memoriam 69: Harry Mears
I recently turned 69, a prophetic age for me, as three dear friends of mine died at that age, and a fourth didn’t even make it that far. This month, I am posting a memorial to each of them, as they are all still very much alive in my spirit.
Harry Mears is the only person I have ever witnessed die.
I met Harry during that blur of my life that was the 1990’s. I had come out, gotten divorced, and was constantly navigating the responsibilities of an adult, a professional, and a father; with the adventurous perils of a freshly minted gay man. For a few years I ran the hotline for a support group of kindred souls, Gay Fathers of Greater Boston. Weekly — sometimes daily — I fielded calls from men with wives and children struggling to find the best way to be their true selves and also true to the commitments they’d made. During bi-monthly GFGB meetings I held break-out sessions with new attendees.
One night, a slight man with thinning hair showed up at a meeting, uncomfortable as any I’d met. He spoke little during the formal meeting, so afterward I sought him out. Harry Mears was an expert on New England fisheries, worked for the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) in Gloucester, had a wife, four daughters, and an impressive house in Andover. All of which was on the line.
I kept tabs on Harry, as I did with many GFGB newbies. I helped him move out of his house. Not only to offer another set of hands, but also provide a buffer from his very angry wife. The man had been a DJ; he owned the most extensive collection of vinyl I’d ever carried. Those thousands of records felt all the more heavy toting them up three floors to his new apartment.
Like me, Harry was originally from the Jersey shore. He attended the neighboring high school, Central Regional, in Forked River, a few years ahead of me. That geographic connection helped explain why we were both of fervent fans of singer/songwriter Melanie, who hailed from nearby Red Bank.
Harry and I were not frequent friends — we lived 25 miles from each other — but we saw each other a few times a year for many years. The rift with his wife never healed, and he had varied interactions with his daughters: one became his steady support; two made occasional contact; a fourth never spoke to him again. That absence gnawed at his soul.
Despite his early DJ life, Harry wasn’t a club guy. He volunteered at The Samaritans suicide hotline for years, and it seemed only right that he met his longtime partner, Ric, at a Sunday night shift there. Eventually, Harry managed to buy a townhouse in southern New Hampshire, where he finally had a plot of ground to decorate and garden. Harry had a powerful green thumb, and created a beautiful tableau where his plantings melded seamlessly into the woods beyond. For years, my housemate and I made a Christmas pilgrimage to Seabrook, where we marveled at Ric and Harry’s elaborate decorations, both inside and out. I was the odd man out of this quartet — the only non-smoker in the crowd. I’d sit in the cozy living room and enjoy the fire while the three of them shivered on the back deck, chatting between puffs.
Like many men whose lives are upturned in their forties and fifties, Harry had to work past early retirement to meet his many financial obligations. He finally scheduled retirement for Christmas of 2017, but his excitement was trampled at Thanksgiving, when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Harry stopped working just in time to become a full-time patient. Ric set up a rotating group of folks to take Harry to chemo. My first round transpired uneventfully; I picked up Harry, took him to his session, and delivered the withered man home. The follow week, Ric called the night before and said Harry had taken a turn and was in the hospital; no chemo that day. I drove up to Exeter Hospital anyway, for a visit. Within an hour of my arriving, Harry spiraled down. Ric and I watched a heroic medical time do their best. To no avail.
I stayed with Ric a day or so. We went through some stuff. Ate out at some forgettable restaurant. The following Sunday, Ric and the loyal members of Harry’s family scattered his ashes off a cliff along the New Hampshire coast. Into the sea that Harry loved.
