His head was down when he sang, as if that were helping him reach the really low notes of his bass part. Yet despite the solemnity of most of the choral music rehearsed every Wednesday night and performed every Sunday morning, Herbie's robust renditions always carried hints of pirate drinking songs. "Yo ho, yo ho, O Holy Night for me! Herbie played piano with the same gusto, turning every hymn Joplinesque, his meaty hands bouncing off the keys like fleas in a circus.
His day job was equally enthusiastic. As the dean of the law school at Hofstra University, he was often tapped to deliver public addresses to faculty, potential benefactors and students alike. Humor always won out, albeit enunciated in the most academic of speech. He was loved by his students and respected by his colleagues.
I sat in front of him in choir, the only other prematurely white head of the bunch. Although his generous profile was entirely different from my slight one, we were green-robed doppelgangers, separated at birth, my alto-with-an attitude to his boom-box bass, pun masters and pet lovers.
Herbie passed away a couple of weeks ago. I miss his voice, his grin, his bearded face and hair and hands. When I reached for my green choir robe on the rack, I pushed past his, a bit more rumpled than mine. His spot in the loft was left empty, as if we all were hoping to hear that unmistakable voice ringing through the veil.
