Hello. Thank you for coming. There is no formal program in the program, because the program is us. It is in the collective memory of the people in this room, and a good many who could not be here, that the story of Scott Keating resides. I will make a few remarks of my own and then open the floor to anyone who wishes to speak. Don’t be shy. Tell what you know.

We have been prepared for this day a long time, which is as much as to say, not prepared at all. For my part, I could have spent the time more profitably by talking Scott into writing this for me. I did try. He often told me that I was to write his eulogy, and as often I told him I’d deliver it if he’d write it. He must have thought I was joking.

I’m not qualified to write Scott’s eulogy – all of you will have to help me with that. There are large chapters, volumes of Scott’s life of which I was only a distant observer. I don’t wish to assault you with a catalog of facts and events to which I was not witness. I know that’s how eulogies are usually built, and it’s what makes them generally so tedious. Scott himself was an excellent eulogist. He was a master at selecting a humorous story just scandalous enough to be startling, but still within the bounds of good taste enjoyed by his audience – or at least not so far beyond those bounds as they were willing to stretch them for his sake. As it is, I am forced to wrestle with my own wit to produce something worth hearing, which is difficult, or simply to let my heart break open and speak, which is harder.

This man, Scott Keating, has been my friend for 42 years and my best friend for most of that time. I believe he named me so as well, and for that privilege I am grateful, and humbled. He was an extraordinary person – a top-notch intellect coupled with a heart as compassionate and profound as they come. Such creatures are rare, and prone to live too short a time. I met him on our first day of high school, and like so many people in the ensuing years, recognized immediately that he was someone to know, someone not to part with. Now he has parted with us, and the space he has left behind is a prodigy

He was a big man, in every sense of the word. He made friends wherever he met people. The number of interesting, passionate, intelligent and good hearted people I have met by knowing Scott is a gift he left me that somewhat fills the void he left behind. How many times I have marveled, seeing him meet new people, to see how easily he won their confidence and love. Not with flattery, and not from any motive but human kindness. How many times I wished I could do the same.

Through all my questing for answers to the spiritual problems that I hoped, if solved, would make sense of life to me, again and again I have returned to watching Scott’s way of being, and found there a touchstone that made all those abstractions moot. The plants in his house supplied me with visible evidence of his spirit. Pilants in my house have a short lease, and usually choose to break it. His plants did not only thrive, but flourished with an enthusiasm that defied explanation. I believe that, like so many of the people he touched in his life, they recognized that here was a being who would not forsake them, whose heart was bigger than life’s challenges. He gave comfort to the world, without enjoying much of it himself.

I do not mean to portray the man as perfect or saintly. There are those, and some here present, who felt the sting of his unforgiveness. It was the shadow of his great heart, and evidence of the sorrows he bore, that some wrongs could not be forgotten.

Every great friendship stands on at least two legs. That of Scott and me stood on these: admiration and a determined laissez faire attitude. What Scott admired in me is still a puzzle, but I know he let me hang around for so many years because I was always willing to let him go to hell in his own way. He did the same for me. It’s tricky ground for a friendship. It often involves pretending one does not see a problem, while always being available to discuss it when the other has a need.

Many people would consider this style of friendship to be false, even damaging. A bit of intervention is called for, they say, when a friend is going wrong. They may be right. But if they practiced on Scott, they did not remain close to him for long. We honor people by providing, not the medicine we think they need, but the medicine they ask for. A blind eye and a white lie are often the best aids to friendship, and to peace.

But I think I promised you a story, at least I did so left-handedly.

Most of the best stories I could tell about Scott are stories he told me about himself. He tended to shield me from the hazards of life as he knew it, and so I was not a party to his more picaresque adventures. But one story I can tell, which is the one about how we disposed of his father’s ashes. The statute of limitations has run out on this particular act of malfeasance, and anyhow the ringleader is dead, so I feel safe in disclosing it now. Scott has already fictionalized it in a short story. I read the story long ago, long enough that I don’t think I remember the particulars well enough to plagiarize them. I do recall that the character meant to represent myself is depicted as always carrying a volume of Proust in his back pocket, which is a flagrant invention. I’ve never done so. It speaks volumes, though, about Scott’s inner view of me, volumes I’ll leave on the shelf for now.

We set out on a crisp fall day, Scott, Sam McClure and I, to carry the remains of Paul Hepburn Keating to Santa Fe. Paul H. had repeatedly answered the concerns of friends in his last years, concerns about both his financial and his psychological well-being, by saying, “That’s all right. Next year I’m moving to Santa Fe.” He didn’t make it while he lived, and Scott was determined to see him complete the journey.

After a long and pleasant drive, listening the while to Sam’s recounting of romantic interludes enjoyed at this or that spot along the way, we checked into a motel in Santa Fe and then went to Maria’s for dinner, where Sam recommended the Carne Adovada, which was indeed superb, and I can testify that the Margaritas were above reproach, too, and I don’t often say that about Margaritas.

In the morning, we drove north of Santa Fe to a 4-star resort called Rancho Encantado, had a drink in the bar (not to appear ungrateful for the service they were unwittingly about to provide us) and then proceeded outside to the picnic area, a covered, dirt-floor pavilion, with a bandstand, torches and barbeque pits. I had anticipated a hike into the hills, but here Scott halted and declared, “This is the place.” And like good Mormons, Sam and I did there lay down our burdens and give thanks. And there we did brake ope’ Paul H’s anointed temple and proceed to scatter his noble self over the dance floor, the stage, the benches, and finally, in the barbeque pits, where for some time to come, he no doubt flavored the grilled tenderloin of many a titled Republican.

Were I to shed as many tears as I have had joys over the last 42 years, I don’t know when I would stop. If I were to count the laughs, I’d never be done. Thank you and good night, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.