When the Man Comes Around

My recent trip to Mississippi for my judge's funeral put me in a nostalgic reverie.

Cinema Paradiso has always been one of my favorite movies, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve appreciated new subtleties and identified with the lead character, Salvatore “Toto” Di Vita, in different ways. The tale of a successful director returning to his poor Sicilian hometown from Rome after decades away hits different when you’re pushing 50 than when you’re 15 or even 35. Set aside the romance of Italy—I’ve long been an Italophile, perhaps in part because my family spent four months in a Roman exurb during our emigration from the Soviet Union—and you’re left with the timeless story of a prodigal son recalling his formative youth but realizing that you can’t go home again.

I thought about that film when my dad passed away three years ago and I cleared out his condo, bringing home family mementos and the last vestiges of both my childhood and my parents’ lives more broadly. Toronto is now just another big city; it’s changed tremendously in the three decades since I lived there and there’s nothing there for me but a few friends and my parents’ graves. And I’m sure the little town where I spent ages 5 to 14, Lindsay, Ontario, would be even more unrecognizable.

Two weeks ago I thought about Cinema Paradiso again as I took an early-morning flight to New Orleans to then drive up to Jackson, Mississippi, for the funeral of the judge I clerked for, E. Grady Jolly. As my head lolled against the airplane window, I recalled the scene where middle-aged Salvatore catches a flight to Palermo and similarly thinks back to his youth while looking out at the nighttime sky.

I was 26-27 when I spent that year in the Deep South learning what all those complicated rules and fancy ideas I learned about in law school meant in practical terms. As I wrote in a City Journal tribute to Judge Jolly, that experience taught me a lot about the law for sure, but also about life.

Anyhow, as I drove up I-55 for the funeral, I put on the soundtrack of that formative year, which consisted of the hauntingly redemptive rhythm of The Man in Black rather than the gently melancholic score of Ennio Morricone. The first song that came up on my “Johnny Cash and Friends” Pandora station was the crowd-pleasing “I Walk the Line,” but the one that’s been stuck in my head ever since I learned of Judge Jolly’s passing was “The Man Comes Around.” If you’re not familiar, it’s a spare, prophetic, and deeply ominous meditation on judgment—biblical in tone and almost liturgical in delivery. Go listen to it now.

It was a magical year.

Not that my judge was particularly religious. I actually didn’t know that he was at least nominally Episcopalian until the funeral was set for Jackson’s majestic St. Andrew’s Cathedral. But he was always curious, spiritually, intellectually, and culturally. That’s how he was so good at what he did without taking himself so seriously.

As one of the eulogists put it, it’s odd to say that someone who went at 88 died too soon, but it’s absolutely true here. And ironically, or sadly, while my dad’s long illness allowed me to talk about everything I ever wanted to with him, there’s so much more I would’ve loved to discuss with Judge Jolly. He was so vibrant and so wise. I thought I had more time.

But now that he’s gone, now that my dad’s gone, now that people ask me for advice, now that making it up as I go along actually makes sense… it really makes a man take stock.

One thing is that, just like I haven’t been to Toronto in two years—despite having been to Canada twice in that time—I now no longer have much reason to go “messin’ ’round” in Jackson. And it’s not the same besides, with even the law firms having moved up to Madison County… you can’t step into the same river twice, right?

Okay, before this gets too maudlin or makes me drink too much of the whiskey I’ll now be pouring out not just for William (Faulkner) but for Grady, let me just say that I appreciate all of you subscribers, and even you readers. I always appreciate hearing from you and I do take requests. But you still have to pay to comment. As the bard sang, “everyone I know goes away in the end.”