A Shock

Normally I would not post twice in a day. But this requires a post.

Earlier in the afternoon, I had visited my friend, MattBites, and left a comment on his piece about cheese, saying he inspired me to go visit my cheese shop. So I e-mailed Matt and told him to telephone me with any cheese recommendations.

We chatted briefly, until I arrived at the cheese shop, with his recommendations reciting in my brain: Tetilla and Nevat…Tetilla and Nevat…Tetilla and Nevat. (I hadn't anything to write with, so was reciting them to myself so I wouldn't forget. Have I mentioned I have a kind of audio-dyslexia, which means I can't understand verbal directions...I have to see them written, or have a map. Words just fall right out of my head sometimes.) I was already planning to e-mail Bob Furber, the wonderful cheesemonger, whom I had just told Matt, "He's filled with more good cheese trivia. I can stand there and listen to him and never get bored."

I told him what Bob had told me about the particular Parmigiana-Reggiano they sell, which he was cutting with his long double-handled cheese knives at the time. It seems that astronauts lose bone mass (calcium) on long stays aboard the space shuttles, and the Russians had discovered that their cosmonauts regained the bone mass more quickly than others with stays at a certain spa in Parma. What was their secret? The cheese. Henceforth, space shuttles began carrying one-ounce portions of the cheese wrapped in foil, as a proactive measure against loss of bone mass.

I took several photographs of the cheese board and products on the shelves, playing with my camera and lens, and then did a double-take when my eyes landed on the item at the right, prominently placed at the front of the cheese counter.

REMEMBRANCES? Robert Hall Furber? Dead? Bob dead?

I'd seen him two days before he died—just two weeks ago—happily doling out samples of cheese at the west side Saturday market. As usual, he was grinning and delighted to be doing what he seemed to love most: turning people on to good cheeses. (It turns out that he loved a lot of things, apparently living life to the fullest.)

Bob Furber died at age 53, scuba diving with one of his teenaged sons. He was a treasure, a wonderful person, and someone I am glad I knew, if only too briefly. I am sorry to have missed his memorial service yesterday.

Well, that's all I can say. I had a private little cry, said a prayer, and lit a candle. Maybe I should go make a cheese toast. To Bob: “I raise my glass and thank you for everything you gave to so many, for so long. And so long, my friend.”

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: “Cheese—milk's leap toward immortality.” — Clifton Paul Fadiman

Godspeed, Bob Furber.

Comments

[matt]

I am raising a glass of wine (and eating cheese) to toast Bob. He sounds like a wonderful wonderful man.

:(

[farmgirl]

What a lovely tribute after such a shock. I don't know what it is, but this is one of those weeks where every time I turn around, someone else has just died--or I learn of someone's recent death. People I knew, and people I knew through their work. An author whose books I love, a relative, an actor, this wonderful man you've introduced us to. . .the list goes on.

[Martha Chase]

Ref: A Labor of Love - Last year I was fortunate enough to visit California with my friend who lived in San Jose. She knew I wanted to see farms in the area so we headed out toward Monterey. We saw many farms and stopped at an artichoke farm. What fun. Having been brought up on a farm I can appreciate the commitment required to continue to work at farming. My brother still works on the farm but at 59 years old I'm not sure how much longer he can keep it going. But he loves the life. It surely is a labor of love.