From: wood@siemens.com. (Jim Wood)
Newsgroups: soc.motss
Subject: Dear Rob Bernardo, my wonderful friend
Date: 15 Aug 92 19:55:07 GMT

This is my last letter to you.  You died two days ago at the age of 40 from
complications of AIDS.  You and I will not be able to communicate as we
did in the past.  I shall miss you, Rob, for your warmth, with, intelligence,
insight, commitment, and most of all, for your love.

When I first began reading soc.motss two and a half years ago, yours was
one of the most prominent names of the newsgroup.  You _were_ soc.motss to
me. I remember so well looking for articles which you authored, noting them
for their unique perspective and sound basis of reasoning.  From your
messages came forth a kind, just, and fair personality.

What quality of yours most drew me to you, before we met?  You especially
felt the great injustice of discrimination and the many forms of its
manifestations.  Whether exposing public attitudes of prejudice and hypocrisy
in our laws and government, or highlighting how none of us is immune from its
debilitating effects, you always applied your keen insight to the issues
which came before the newsgroup.  In yourself you were vigilant in applying
calm reason to your prejudices.  To me you quickly became a role model in
this regard.

We first began our voluminous correspondence on March 12, 1991, only 3 days
after your thirty-ninth birthday.  At first our only common interests were
articles which appeared on the soc.motss and misc.fitness newsgroups.  Our
first letters to each other were short messages related to these articles.
In June, our correspondence accelerated quite rapidly.  I went to Provincetown
for my vacation in early August, and came back to find a long letter from
you. Our daily routine started with this.  After that, you and I were in
daily contact which stopped only with your final illness three weeks ago.

Can I possibly say how much my relationship with you meant?  No, I don't
think so.  During the first two months of our daily communication last
summer, we began to know each other in much more detail.  We talked about
our shared and distinct interests.  We flirted and played games.  We talked
*endlessly* about sex -- with our boyfriends, tricks, and yes, with each
other.  From these letters I learned that you enjoyed a country lifestyle,
had interests in rodeos, horse riding, and country western music.  I also
learned that we had many common interests -- among them gay culture,
politics, classical music, weight training, our family relationships, and
most importantly, our beliefs and values.  They weren't the values that Dan
Quayle espouses, but they were admirable and good.

You didn't know that I specifically arranged a weekend trip to San Francisco
for the sole purpose of meeting you, when I had a business trip last October
in Los Angeles.  I was overjoyed at the hospitality which you tendered me on
this visit.  I remember so clearly the circumstances of the day when we
finally met.  I flew from Philadelphia to San Francisco on Thursday, October
24, 1991 and arrived at The Willows in the Castro district.  We had dinner
together, and you took me to an avant garde play, "The Love Diatribe" (which
we both disliked).  I remember seeing you for the first time, walking up the
narrow steps of the hotel to greet me.  You were exactly as I expected from
your archived picture, but the picture failed to capture your beautiful
blue-green eyes.

On the following day, I went to the gym with you in Concord.  I saw your
wonderful home, your horse Oriana (whom you loved so faithfully) and the
basic artifacts of the life you loved.  You took me to the Grand National
Rodeo at the Cow Palace.  On the following day, you cooked me a wonderful
breakfast of homemade pancakes, and then we went for a long scenic drive.
That evening, you hosted a soc.motss dinner where I met several soc.motss
readers, including your close friend Chuck Fisher.  Finally, you took me to
your favorite bar in San Francisco, the Rawhide, of which I had recently
read in Armistead Maupin's "Tales of the City" series.  We discussed that
book series extensively, do you remember?

I clearly remember saying goodbye to you the following morning, before I
flew to Los Angeles for the business aspect of my trip.  I was very sorry
to part company, knowing how unique and special a friend I had made.  When
I returned to Philadelphia five days later, we resumed our electronic
correspondence but from a much closer, personal, and intimate angle.

Do you remember some of things we wrote to each other?  We discussed classical
music at great length.  Your great love for Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony in
particular -- you sent me the Kenfield notes on it!  I'm looking at them right
now.  You confided in me that no discussion made you feel more emotional or
passionate than a discussion of Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony.  You told me
about how much that particular homoerotic interpretation of the symphony
affected you as a younger man.

In November you were ill with a bad cold and your beloved friend Mark Nilson
died.  It was at this point that you told me your HIV status, for which I
sympathized with you from the bottom of my heart.  I was gravely sorry for
the ordeal which was to face you.  Looking back on that period, I developed
a sense of denial that your battle with AIDS lay far into the future, even
though you frankly told me that your medical statistics indicated otherwise.
I suppose that I denied this to myself, refusing to accept what you had to
endure constantly.

Your fortieth birthday was in March this year.  I planned on attending, and
looked so forward to it.  On the day of the trip, however, I became physically
sick myself, and forlornly concluded that I could not come.  How sad I was all
weekend, for having failed you and let you down!  To this day I'll regret
missing your last birthday.  You forgave me for not coming for your birthday,
but I know it must have hurt you deeply.

In early June we made plans for cross-country trips for the summer.  You were
to have traveled to New York to visit your family in the middle of July,
followed by a trip to Madison, WI to visit Jess Anderson.  I was to have
gone to San Francisco to see you in the middle of August.  Again I looked
forward to seeing you, counting the days and weeks -- for the third time!
Alas, it was not meant to me, that I would see you as a healthy man.

Then your final decline (and only major illness) came.  You went to Donner
Lake with Chuck Fisher for the weekend of July fourth, and told me afterwards
that you felt like "an old man" when you climbed a hill there.  Shortly
afterwards, you were sick enough to postpone your New York trip, and then
canceled it.  My last and 386th message from you said, "I realize I owe you a
letter.  I'm feeling quite ill and weak.  I'll see if I have the energy to
respond later today."  It was dated Tuesday, July 21, 1992.

Once again I was on my way to Provincetown for my vacation, not knowing that
our relationship would come to a close exactly one year after it began.
Concerned about you while en route, I called you and you told me that you had
pneumocystis.  You could not talk for very long, so I simply told you to get
better soon.  In my worst nightmares I never thought it'd be the last time I
would hear your voice.

When I returned from Provincetown a week later, you had been in the hospital
for six days.  Over the course of the next three to four days, Chuck Fisher
gave increasingly negative reports about your condition.  At the end of the
week, hearing but not believing that your death was imminent, I knew that I
had to see you.  There was simply no question, I just had to.  So I flew to
San Francisco to see you, and I humbly thank God that I made that trip.

Before I got to see you I had no idea what kind of comfort to offer.  When
I walked into your room, however, my fears fell away and I knew that the only
important thing to say was "I love you, you've meant so much to me."  Off and
on for the rest of the day, I held your hand, talked to you, and stroked your
forehead.  When we first met you loved it when I stroked your forehead.  I
figure that it must have meant something to you then, too.

You were deeply tanned, even though you'd been sick for several weeks.  Just
before you got sick you told me how dark you were getting, saying "if
whatever infection I have kills me, I'll look great when I go."  I hope you
didn't know the truth of your statement.

You opened your eyes many times and nodded when I asked you questions such as,
"Do you know that I love you?"  Your eyes were still the same beautiful blue-
green, except that they were sunken, drowsy from fighting, and yearning for
relief.

I flew home from San Francisco the following day, crying for your pain
and my own helplessness and rage at seeing you so ill.  When I said
"good-night" to you before leaving and kissed you on your forehead, I knew
that I was really saying goodbye.  On arriving in Philadelphia, denial set in
and I once again reassured myself that you would survive.  However, deep down
I knew that was not possible and that it was better for you to die without a
struggle.  Even if you had survived, you would have faced more painful
illnesses.  In that sense you are lucky, not to have endured the protracted
horrors which AIDS has inflicted on its many other victims.

Chuck called me just after you died at 2:40 p.m. PDT on Thursday, August 13,
1992.  When I  heard his voice on the other end of the line I knew what news
would follow.  "So it's true then, he's gone?" I said.  The shock failed to
set in for several minutes.  When it did, I repeated as I sobbed, "I just
can't believe it."  It was my refrain for what seemed at eternity.  It's
still so unfathomable to think that so vivid a person as you is gone.

I will attend your funeral in New York on Monday.  Next month, I will try
to go to California for a memorial service at the house you loved so much.
David will go with me, the David whom you never met but heard so much about.
He will be a help to me.  I need to do these things -- your funeral, memorial
service, write to you, remember you -- to mourn my loss of you.

This letter is part of that effort.  I owe you a great debt for the
companionship you gave me in our very unique relationship.  Since seeing
you last Saturday in person, not a minute has passed that I haven't
thought of you.  You've been in my dreams since that day, too.  In the
future, you will be with me too.  You are an indivisible part of my life
experience and you will be remembered -- forever.

You once fretted to me that you didn't think what you did in life would
have lasting value, and you spoke mainly of intellectual achievements.  By
themselves they surely were important.  I reminded you, however, of your
effect on me and others in your life and the difference knowing you has made
on all of us.  I hope this helped.  I hope that in your final illness that
the long parade of friends along with your sister Claire brought you to
realizing how deeply people cared for you.  You made a lasting impression on
all of us.

You once told me that you treasured our friendship.  Well, I treasured it
too.  And I'll continue to treasure the letters you wrote to me.  They are
your legacy to me.  I have them all and have been leafing through them for
the past week, remembering the wonderful times we had reading and writing
them.  I will cherish them forever, along with your other gifts to me.

Today I bought a cd of Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony and I've been playing
it as I completed writing this letter.  That work of music, along with your
comments on it, will for me be forever associated with you.

Perhaps this is not my last letter to you!  In the long years to come,
I will often think about you, and feel your energy.  Time will put a distance
to our relationship, give it perspective and history.  However, I've locked
you into my heart forever and there you will remain.  I love you, Rob, and I
know you love me.

Love,
Jim

August 15, 1992

--
Jim Wood [jwood@siemens.siemens.com] (609) 734-3643
"Rise up on the wings of eagles, and two step among the stars.
 You are not forgotten.  Your smile will echo forever."
   -- Ryerson Schwark, to my friend Rob Bernardo.
Xref: sparky soc.motss:35384 soc.bi:10903