It was August when I last visited Webster as a means of honoring a vow to visit a meaningful place for the first time in 17 years. It was a to be the culmination of a new website created to finally articulate thoughts and memories that had lingered in near silence for 20 years. Three months had passed since I heard Richard Newbegin’s “Song for Karen” as images brightened and faded on a screen at CCAC.
Newbegin . . . the name alone suggests just that: a new beginning, rooted as it is in an event in the distant past. The memories from the 1988 were back and as strong as ever. The visit was to honor Karen Hunt on the eve of the 25th anniversary of her death on December 21, 1988. It was an unexpectedly emotional trip; armed with an array of information hitherto unavailable to me, I felt myself drawn back in time to the days before Karen and I started our junior years that fall. Karen would travel to London for a semester abroad, while I would return for my third year at Nazareth College.
Karen merged into history, yet somehow she changed my life.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, that trip to Webster was only the beginning of an odyssey, a springboard into a past that both resonates and survives to this day.
Two months later, I stood a few feet behind Karen’s father in Syracuse as Remembrance Scholars placed white roses on the wall bearing the names of the 35 Syracuse University students killed in the bombing of Pan Am 103. There wasn’t time to introduce myself then and I had already struggled with the thought of trying to contact the Hunts unexpectedly, though I had done it once before, over 23 years ago, in response to an editorial posted in the Democrat and Chronicle.
There was a context for that contact in 1990, and a widely published address. The poem I sent to the family eventually made it into a Victims of Pan Am 103 newsletter, which I discovered in the Syracuse University Archive’s website. Like so many things, it was one more example of the circularity of this story, one more example of a voice, image, or document from the past drawing me into a narrative both old and yet surprisingly new.
My experiences during and after Remembrance Week precipitated a sea change in the site as I rethought the direction of the project and incorporated more information about Karen into her biography and “Two Lives.” I continued to resist the urge to contact them, yet it was also becoming apparent to me that Bob and Peggy Hunt should have the right to vet the site.
In November, I finally resolved never to contact them, lest I dredge up memories perhaps best left in the past.
I’ve never done well with resolutions.
It took a couple of hours to compose the letter. I fought the urge to send it all the way to the post office, yet off it went. As I pondered the act of sending it that evening, a couple of thoughts crossed my mind: similar though we were in many respects, Karen had a fearlessness about her that allowed her to look forward; my penchant for looking back served me well in creating this site, yet it has also rendered me passive out of some often imaginary fear. Sending the letter broke that cycle.
More significant was that fact that the Hunts had actively worked on establishing Karen’s legacy in the archives. They would not have done so if they were trying to close the door to that part of the past.
Days passed, and then . . . the unimaginable.
I’ve often used the word “surreal” to describe my experiences in December, 1988, April, 1989, and throughout this past summer and fall. The motion of the car is and my growing nervousness remind me that this is really happening. Something’s come up though, scuttling our original plan. There was a brief tinge of disappointment at the news a few days ago, but I quickly put it into perspective. A few months’ delay is nothing in the context of 25 years. I know this will happen now, even if today isn’t the day.We have a few things we’ve picked up, printed, or made over the past week. I anticipate a brief exchange, after which we’ll leave the gifts and make the 5 hour trek back to Pittsburgh. Nevertheless, I can feel my hands shaking as we pass through the snow-tinged homes and fields in Webster before we turn off into the development. We’re just a bit early and I stop the car by a large pile of snow in the cul-de-sac; it’s a far cry from that rainy but pleasant day in August.
Stopping does nothing to ease my nerves, so we follow the an extended drive and pull into the last driveway. Traci and I follow the path to the front door as my nervousness and excitement reaches a crescendo.
The nervousness (but not the excitement) vanishes the moment I look into Peggy Hunt’s eyes and see a familiar kindness as she invites us inside.
Robert Hunt greets us inside, still a bit sore from a recent operation. There’s a pang of guilt as I second-guess my request to drop the pictures and gift bags off at their house, but we’ll probably be out soon enough. He retreats to more comfortable quarters as we follow Peggy into the beautiful kitchen for cookies, tea, and coffee . . . and conversation.
And what a conversation it is. Peggy opens the discussion by asking me about my experiences in 1988, and I cover the basics of how Remembering Karen came into existence, starting with that awful evening in 1988, the genesis of “Crime of Apathy,” and the renewed power of the story brought about by Robyn’s slideshow and by the photos and materials the Hunts shared with the archives.
Then the conversation turns toward Karen herself and the bizarre string of coincidences that followed, and continue to follow, December 21, 1988. It’s here that I see something truly remarkable. Peggy positively glows when she talks about Karen and Robyn. I don’t believe that I’ve ever witnessed such a powerful and transcendent bond and connection.
It’s pure love.
Karen is coming into focus in a way I never thought possible. There are no words to express my gratitude at the moment, so I keep my mouth shut lest I start to get a bit too mawkish.
Bob joins us for coffee. Between the two, we find ourselves immersed in a rich personal and political history as we learn more about Karen, the frantic days after the bombing, and the family’s efforts to find justice in the years following the Lockerbie Disaster. Peggy brings out a box full of letters and photographs, and I have a chance to read a letter written by one of Karen’s roommates. I could spend hours looking over the materials in the box, which is but one of many.
Both of them seem willing to share stories, stories of Karen, of the kindness of friends and strangers, of the flags on the mantle and on Karen’s grave. Our conversation covers a remarkable amount of ground, so much so that our anticipated 20 minute stop lasts well over 3 hours. I suspect that it could have gone on much longer—or that we could just as easily have spent a comparable amount of time talking politics with Bob or spirituality with Peggy. Both are simply that gracious, friendly, and easy to talk to.
If children carry with them the echoes of their parents, then I can see much of who Karen was in light of this remarkable visit. Somehow, I feel as though whispers of Karen’s voice reached us through our meeting with Peggy and Bob as well.
Karen’s light, voice, and memory are well tended in that household. Thank you both for sharing a bit of yourselves, and of Karen, with Traci and I.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends . . . And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.
