“Please accept this song from a total stranger.”
Richard Newbegin
Karen Lee, are you listening?
Karen Lee, can you hear me?
Are you there, can you see me?
Let me know if you’re near me.
The winter’s coldness blows,
The warmth of you still glows.
I wish that I could know who you were.
Were you small, and an artist?
Were you tall, and a poet?
Did you tell funny stories?
Did you love someone dearly?
I never knew at all your warmth and beauty, girl,
But, somewhere, someday.
Maybe far away, or just here?
No one knows why you were taken.
In this world, so much evil.
But you knew when it ended,
Something new was beginning.
Your twenty golden years;
The laughter and the tears.
Now, rid of all your fears in The Garden Of Love.
Left behind are your loved ones.
They will cry. They’re still grieving.
Left alone by your leaving.
Let them know, it’s no ending.
The tears will never dry,
But time will see them by.
Help stop them asking “Why?”
They will see you again, In The Garden Of Love.
It was a nondescript Wednesday in August when a man named Richard Newbegin wandered into the Garden of Remembrance in Lockerbie. Two and a half years had passed since Pan Am 103 shattered in the sky to the west of the small town, two and half years since debris and fire marked the passing of 270 souls, a town’s anonymity, and a nation’s innocence.
His mother, who moved to Lockerbie earlier that year, suggested that the Newbegins should visit the Garden of Remembrance during their visit. On August 14, 1991, Richard visited the Garden with his children. The experience changed his life. In his own words, “I came, a complete stranger to the tragedy. I left, inexplicably, a part of it.”
Normally a man who saw history in graveyards, Newbegin found himself overwhelmed with a sense of grief at the scope and horror of the bombing. Devastated, he sat on a wooden bench as he read the plaques on either side of the memorial.
He was suddenly enveloped by a sense of warmth and love, of a peace that defies description. Sensing a presence nearby, he turned to find a name, Karen Lee Hunt. He read “Somewhere my friend” on Karen’s memorial plaque—then he burst into tears.
Inspired by the experience, he sat down at his piano to compose a song for Karen’s family. The song seemed to flow out of nowhere; within a few days he had composed “Song for Karen,” his homage to Karen Hunt and her fellow victims.
Newbegin felt compelled to send the song to the Hunts, yet he feared the the song would inflame healing wounds. Then there was the matter of making contact with Karen’s family, no small task in 1991.
His mother suggested that Richard contact Ella Ramsden, the Lockerbie resident whose flat was partially demolished by the portion of the fuselage carrying many of the Syracuse University students. Roughly 70 victims were found in or around her back yard; Karen Hunt was among them. Remarkably, Ella was talking with David Johnston, an investigator who was about to return to Glasgow—and the man officially assigned as a contact to the Hunts—when Newbegin called.
Intrigued by the song, Johnston called the Hunts early on the morning of Valentine’s Day in 1992. The families quickly established a friendship that has survived to this day.
On the 10th anniversary of the bombing, Bob and Peggy Hunt brought a copy of the song to Dynamic Recording Studio in Rochester, NY to commemorate the tragedy and to raise money for the Ronald McDonald House. The song was remastered and released on a CD. The album also contains the original recording, an instrumental version of “Song for Karen,” and “Only Americans,” a song written by Bonnie Abrams in response to a letter Bob Hunt published in the Democrat and Chronicle on Easter, 1990.
Copies of “Song for Karen” and “Only Americans” are available on the David Kaspersin’s Karen Lee Hunt memorial website and through iTunes.
Dynamic Recording has three streaming internet radio stations. Two play songs randomly; coincidentally, but not surprisingly, “Song for Karen” played as David Kaspersin added the link Remembering Karen to the memorial site. I can only shake my head and smile when something like this happens. I’ve come to expect nothing less.
* * *
I see a number of parallels between Richard Newbegin’s story and my own. Both of us were moved by powerful experiences in graveyards—Richard’s occurred at the Pan Am 103 Memorial Garden in Dryfesdale Cemetery in Lockerbie, while mine took place at Karen’s grave in Webster Union Cemetery. These experiences moved us to acts of creativity: Richard writes that the melody for “Song for Karen” came easily to him, and I recall that my first poem, dedicated to Karen, seemed to “write itself.” Eventually, after much internal debate and concern, both of us contacted the Hunts a number of months after our respective epiphanies. I mailed a poem to Bob, Peggy, and Robyn on April 16, 1990. Word of Richard’s song reached the Hunts at 7:30 in the morning on Valentine’s Day in 1992.
One day I hope to meet, or at least communicate with Richard at some point to discuss his experiences in 1991 and the ensuing years. I suspect that both of us share some characteristics that made us receptive to our respective awakenings. And yet our stories, similar as they are, diverge on a number of key points.
Karen entered my life the day she was torn from her own: December 21, 1988. The full shock of the disaster hit me a day later. I struggled to understand and, ultimately, remove my sadness over her death. My visit to Karen’s grave on April 21, 1989 was partially motivated by the futile hope that I could somehow cast off some of my grief. What transpired that day is somewhat reminiscent of Richard’s experience in August of 1991, though the feelings I had (and had partially forgotten until I reread my journal earlier this month) weren’t as powerful as his. He distinctly felt a sense of love and warmth, and a presence nearby. I felt . . . something, something I couldn’t quite explain rationally beyond that fact that there were intense emotions coursing through me that day.
In a few moments, Richard found the inspiration that eluded me for four months, and a sense of acceptance that I’ve never quite attained after 25 years. He embraced what I initially resisted, and he maintained a connection to the experience, to Karen, and to the Hunts for many years even as my memories of those days settled into dormancy. As I learned in 2013, if the sentiments of those days were slumbering, it was a light slumber. Richard’s “Song for Karen” played as Robyn’s slideshow renewed the past, and his song and story served in part to inspire this site.
Thank you, Richard, for your creativity, your sensitivity, and your beautiful homage to Karen.
