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In Memory

Jeffrey Moore

In Memoriam: Jeffrey Charles Moore, d. August 21, 1971
By Robert Krulwich

If I close my eyes and go back to my most vivid early memory of Jeff Moore, he’s sitting at the end of his bed in Barrows, guitar in hand, head bent forward so I can’t see his face, his hair reddish-blond, cut close, and he’s trying to learn the chord changes to “Michelle, Ma Belle.” It was early 1966, I'm guessing, the back half of our freshman year; the song had just been released and Jeff wasn’t singing, he was probably humming it in his head trying to find the notes.  I don’t remember him ever making lots of noise.

His New York roommate, Andy Meltzer, a conducting major from the Bronx, a tale teller, a big laugher, was the noisy one, a hurricane of a guy who blustered so magnificently, one could hide behind him, which Jeff kind of did, staying quiet in his shadow. I liked Andy, but I really liked Jeff.  He was more or less my athletic equal; we played tennis, I think we tried wrestling, we might have played intramural soccer. We double dated.

He’d grown up in Lakewood, not too far from Oberlin, and was a paper boy for the Cleveland Plain Dealer when he won a scholarship to Exeter Academy in New Hampshire for 4 years. That’s where he became a lover of literature, and, he later told me, a secret smoker, scoring cigarettes in a downstairs hideaway Exeterians called the “butt room.”

When I met him — he was in my freshman section — at first I thought he was shy, but he wasn’t, not really. He was just quiet. Being from New York like his roommate Andy, I was used to New York decibels, New York manners (loud), and wasn’t too familiar with modesty, where one listened more than one spoke and one listened hard — where one kept his troubles hidden and tried to be kind —  people like that were rare for me. In a way, Jeff introduced me to Midwestern manners. From him I learned patience. Over time I learned to sit with him and say pretty much nothing for long spells. I learned to wait. I don’t know what he got from me, but by the time we graduated I could go over to his apartment above the old Co-op bookstore, collapse on a bed or couch and have what I now think of as almost wordless conversations, which I thought ran deep. And maybe they did.

Later, when we left college, I would call him when I could, but Cambridge, Mass., was a long-distance charge, and he had no money and neither did I and our conversations got fewer. Then stopped.

About three years out, I got to wondering what he was up to and tried to find him, calling the last number I had, but there was no answer and I was worried. I asked around and was told — I remember the phone call; it was in the middle of a work day and my boss handed me the phone — that he was gone. Suddenly.  Apparently by his own choice. I didn’t know why, hadn’t a clue, couldn’t understand what had happened. Writing this now, almost 50 years later, I can still feel the shock of that call. And my blankness.

About 20 years after that I bought jerseys for my daughter’s basketball team and had them labeled “J. Moore” on every jersey, for no defensible reason. I just liked watching his name go by.

So now, another 20 years on, I'm summoning him back once again, slipping past the jerseys and that phone call, all the way back to him on the bed, leaning in, his fingers trying to capture McCartney's tune. He's not looking at me. He's looking down at the fret, working his fingers, and I flop down, and say....nothing. Not even hi. And it felt so nice.

 
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04/02/19 10:08 AM #1    

Noel Evans

I'm glad to see the memory of Jeff that you wrote, Bob. Jeff and I were not as close as you describe, but he had a kind of warm shyness and welcoming smile that I remember vividly. Still water running deep, but friendly. Maybe it was a 'Midwestern' style, as Bob says. 

Jeff and I went to the same high school, Exeter, where we were both on scholarship, (as I was also at Oberlin, where I think Jeff was as well.) There was always a bond among Exonians (not Exeterians) on scholarship. The place was generous -- half of the students were on scholarhip.  We had a vague awareness that we were rubbing elbows with scions of some of the world's greatest fortunes -- families with famous people. I think we both found Oberlin to be a relief in some way.  More diversity, more progressive social atmosphere. But I was very lonely at first (nothing wrong with Oberlin, just my nature.) Jeff and I would pass each other on the Oberlin paths, smile, say hi, nod our heads, and maybe chat a tiny bit, but mostly just showing each other that we were glad to see one another. Maybe it was that shy smile. It helped me get through the freshman loneliness.    I'm sorry that Jeff is gone, but glad that he is not really gone, as your writing shows, Bob. A quiet person who got through to people. RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


04/02/19 01:46 PM #2    

Richard 'Stu' Edwards

Jeffrey Moore was, indeed, a quiet one.  He was also frighteningly intelligent.  He was constantly on the “high and highest” Honor Roll at Exeter.  As a scholar of exceptionally modest achievement, I was in awe.  On the other hand, without me, there could not have been no top half of the class...at Exeter or at Oberlin!  I suspect that we Midwesterners tend towards the taciturn, especially in contrast to you New Yorkers, Bob. You were, and continue to be, replete with the “gift of gab.”  I love listening to you on NPR!  And Noel; if I remember correctly, your reference to “paddling our sterns yet tender” at our Exeter Exodus was classic!  In retrospect, Jeff was quiet, even for a Midwesterner.  I suspect that the companionable silence attributed to the denizens of “no coast” results from the intensity of our Winters, during which the effort required by speech can be painful! 


04/03/19 10:23 AM #3    

Noel Evans

Stu -- thanks for remembering Jeff -- and that class poem. I always thought the Exeter/Oberlin combo was a great balance. Noel

 


04/03/19 11:29 AM #4    

Penny Howell (Jolly)

Jeff and I were not close, but we were certainly friendly and attended an event or two together.  I remember one time telling him about a truly weird dream I had had, and he--usually so quiet--offered an elaborate Freudian analysis of it, element by element!  Penny


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