MARY BLOOM SAYS “BELIEVE”
(Mary Bloom, Photographer to Dog Stars, dies at 81. New York Times obit page, 10/13/21)
Last October, the Times reported the death of my friend Mary Bloom. Her 21 years as a brilliant staff photographer at the annual Westminster Kennel Club dog show, her fierce passion for animals and her generous spirit are legendary among those who knew her.
This is not a recounting of Mary’s many accomplishments, however, but a true story for those whose hearts also belong to Manhattan’s Peaceable Kingdom, and who cannot bear to think about loss.
I write to share what was known to only a few. Mary was a firm believer in life after death.
When I visited Mary in May of last year, she asked for my help with a very special task. She had saved the ashes of her cremated animal companions from over the years and because of the neuropathy in her hands, needed my help putting them into a vintage gallon glass jar she had been saving for a special purpose.
We put on Pachelbel’s Canon and sat at the table, opening boxes, and then, plastic bags containing the soft dust of Lucas the African Grey parrot, Kate the dachshund, the Yorkies Mighty Joe and Spanky, Fiona the Sheltie, and the cats: Porch Cat and Cece. As the ashes sifted together in the jar, there were some tears, but not many. Mostly gratitude.
I remembered that I had once said to Mary that I was afraid to get a dog, because I didn’t know how I could deal with the inevitable ending. Her response was immediate and emphatic: “Dogs are made for love,” she said. “To give love and to receive it. Why would you ever want to deprive one of its purpose?”
The jar was two thirds full when we finished. “There’s just enough room still for Pie (her Corgi) and me,” said Mary.
I flew back home and in August, I called Mary for her birthday, but did not reach her. Some weeks later, we spoke and I learned of her cancer diagnosis. When not in pain, she reported she was busy sending out her handmade greeting cards, combining images, sometimes hers, sometimes recycled, always with a meaningful quote or two. Saying goodbye. “It’s my time,” she told me.
In October, she was gone.
In November, I was in my kitchen and my computer — which had been in sleep mode — suddenly woke and began singing that old song from the 1950s musical Guys and Dolls: “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. . .” A pause. Then it would repeat. Over and over. I couldn’t figure out how to make it stop. I finally had to shut it down, completely mystified.
I recognized the voice — it was mine, singing that song for someone as a voicemail. Befuddled, I didn’t remember when I did it or for whom. I hadn’t a clue how it ended up on my desktop computer, since I had recorded the message via my IPhone. I left the mystery alone and went on with my day.
The following afternoon, I was once more in my kitchen and again my computer woke to sing: “I love you, a bushel and a peck. . .” Once, twice, more to come. At which point, I suddenly knew. I went and stood in front of the screen and said aloud, my voice high and happy, “Is that YOU, Mary???” The song stopped.
Stunned moment. Then, “Well, you always did love computers, Mary,” I said. And she really did — she was my go-to for all sorts of tech issues and had once worked in the industry. But how did she manage — wherever she was — to retrieve my voice on her IPhone and send it back to me on my computer? Because then I remembered that, in fact, when I called to wish her happy birthday last August, that song was the birthday greeting I had left for her.
Mary’s last card to me included a Peanuts cartoon: “Someday we will all die,” says Charlie Brown. “True, but on all the other days, we will not,” says Snoopy. The card announces the death of beloved Pie. “She’s playing stick and ball and sniffing flowers in the clouds now!” wrote Mary. “Until I arrive!”
“Love, Mary Bloom”
