Remembrances of
Larry Hoey
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Remembering Larry Hoey

Gloria C. Stewart - Camp Hill, Pennsylvania
Gloriacstewart@email.msn.com

My first recollection of Larry is of him sitting in my tenth grade humanities class, looking angry, bored, I don’t know what exactly. I only knew I wasn’t impressing him one bit. At first he offered only questions: "Is that all you’re going to tell us about the Italian Renaissance poets?" This at a time when it was only dawning on me that there had been a Renaissance, and that it had been in Italy, and that there had been poets. I thought this was enough for me to pass on to any tenth grader. Larry taught me otherwise.

For the next two years, for two periods a day, Larry acted as resident guest lecturer for my course. When we visited the Cloisters, he conducted a class tour even though he had never been there before. When we went to Williamsburg, he lectured on the patterns of brickwork. When we did a class reading of "The Lark," he composed and played on the piano what sounded to me like medieval music. Amazed at his skill, I asked him how long he had been taking piano lessons. "I never had any lessons," he muttered.

And mutter he did. I could never get him to speak up, though I nagged him gently as I could. Larry was clearly bored with high school and eager to be doing things that were more important to him. I considered him pretty much a loner.  When the other kids went outside for a break, Larry stayed at his desk, chin resting on his hand, determined, it seemed to me, to be antisocial. Just as determined to be his saving grace, I would plunk down in the seat next to him and force him to mutter to me. 

Little by little I got to know him, mostly through his writing. I had a red pen, and I think this impressed Larry. It was the one place I knew more than he did-at least I could out-spell him back then. He wrote lots of things-I remember one description of Berlioz’ "Romeo and Juliet," a thing that was for me impossible to describe in words. And descriptions of his grandfather in Reading. And his hikes in New England with his brother.

Larry was generous with his music. If I couldn’t always understand his speech, his music was loud and clear. I loved to listen to him play-his cantankerousness disappeared during his recitals, and he appeared truly happy as he played.

During his senior year, I agonized as he prepared for an audition at Oberlin and an interview with the Foreign Service.  Yale placed him on its waiting list, and he was crushed. He seemed to arrive at Rochester without any interference from me, and when he came home that first summer, I hardly recognized him. He had discovered women and folk dancing. I couldn’t believe this strutting, stomping high stepper was the shy boy I had tried in vain to pry out of his shell. He brought with him one weekend some talented friends, and it was my joy to see their dancing and music accompany his high spirits.

For a number of years after college, he visited each holiday season, and he couldn’t hide his pride as he told me of his professional accomplishments and his expanding tastes in music; nor would I have wanted him to, for I loved seeing how well he was doing and how comfortable he was in his own skin.

I can’t believe he’s gone. These last years his visits were less and less frequent, usually only every fifth year when he came back to Harrisburg for a high school reunion. A few times he sent me a copy of a paper he had published or some poetry he had written. Strange how some people stay with us, though, whether we see them or not. Larry is like that for me. I
still can’t believe that some holiday season, he won’t show up with his Bach partitas and tell me that my piano needs tuning. 

I think that as a teacher I only ever touched the edges of his talent. I like to think that as a friend I got a bit closer. He will be with me, I know, for the rest of my days.

Gloria C. Stewart - Camp Hill, Pennsylvania
Gloriacstewart@email.msn.com
 


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