“Lindsay’s Finest” is the name of a car club in town with some avid members. I’ve always thought the name charmingly bold, if perhaps slightly incomplete. But Friday, at Lindsay Strathmore Public Cemetery, I caught a glimpse of a widely-expanded group of people who fall into that category, and a simple force that makes this place Home.
We
were gathered to celebrate the life and bury the remains of Robert Lindsay
Hart, 58. His body had been overwhelmed
by cancer Oct. 16th, his spirit released.
His family and friends, at least those who were aware that he had died,
assembled there on the grass to recognize the passing of someone they cared
about. And there were many.
Lindsay was a character. I didn’t know him well, but I recognized the
free spirit in him the first time we met.
He was out for a stroll through the neighborhood one night when I was
out working in my yard under the cover of darkness. We stood and talked for over an hour. We were friends from that time on.
And judging by the number of people
who came to pay their respects, he had many friends. Most have known him all their lives and have
stories to tell, some of which we heard that morning. They were stories of befriending, of intense
“discussions” over important aspects of car maintenance and anything else, of
parties on the canal that could have gone south but for his presence. And there were tears from some of the young
men who looked up to him and were helped by him.
I didn’t know how much he loved
cars, and what a good mechanic and machinist he was. But when people started arriving in hotrods
and vintage sedans from the 1950’s, one good ’n loud motorcycle, that part of
his life became evident. As one
particularly souped-up coupe pulled in, I realized that Lindsay’s finest had
arrived - this huge cadre of people who called him Friend.
Some people knew he could be
irascible. I never experienced anything
from him but respect. After I heard that
he’d passed, I realized that the one thing I knew about Robert Lindsay Hart was
that if I were standing naked and he stood next to me with only a shirt on, he
would take it off and wrap it around me.
I know that as certainly as my own name.
So we gathered, old and young,
friends and family, friends and enemies, some women, mostly men, to say goodbye
reluctantly. Pastor Karen Stoffers-Pugh
came up from Bakersfield to guide us, grateful to be back in this community
where she started her ministry. I sang
an old A.P. Carter song, “Diamonds in the Rough,” because the music Lindsay
loved (in the words of a mutual friend) was “too wild” for me. Karen chose a song from his favorite group,
Boston, called “Don’t Look Back,” their #2 hit, and played all 5 minutes of it
at the service’s end.
And as the guests gave the family
their condolences, and the sun kept moving across the sky, men of all ages
began peeling out and laying down rubber in Lindsay’s honor. In my mine, that was as good as a 21-gun
salute or jets streaking across the sky.
It was some of Lindsay Hart’s finest friends paying tribute to one of
the town’s finest free spirits. Thank
you, everyone, for this sweet glimpse of our real community.
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Trudy
Wischemann is a 21-year-long newcomer to Lindsay. You can send your funeral sightings of bliss
to her c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a comment below.
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I think I remember him from high school, but did not know him.
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