Peter Gomes

After the Plymouth Fourth of July celebrations of my teenage years, one traveled to Duxbury where the fireworks were part of Duxbury Days. They were the culmination of a carnival and were held at midnight to keep the throngs riding the Tilt-a-Whirl and buying cotton candy for as long as possible before they headed for home. 

On one particular Fourth, there was Peter Gomes standing near the entrance meeting people.  He was only a kid, younger than I, and I was a callow youth, but he seemed to know almost everybody.  He called them by name and asked about their relatives and seemed delighted to see them.  As far as I know, he never ate a candy apple or a serving of fried dough. He just stood there saying hello.  

Years later I thought of this when Peter had given his annual sermon at the Church of the Pilgrimage where he packed the pews.  As the throng departed he greeted each person, asking how their summer had been, mentioning Long Pond, Duxbury, boating, or residence at a beach.  He inquired about children, parents, cousins, ancestors, and aunts. 

I marveled at the feat, and so did his mother, the pert and saintly Orissa Gomes.  “It’s my job,” Peter told her, but it was more than that. It seemed as though he was born with a genuine interest in the people around him. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, considered him their friend.

But his talent extended beyond a remarkable memory; he was a man who could entertain. He had an innate sense of humor, a deft turn of phrase, and a way with an anecdote that was all his own. Whether as a preacher of sermons, an after-dinner speaker, or a guest at table, Peter J. Gomes was never in his life a bore.    

There are not many great public speakers in the world, and with his passing their number was reduced by one.  He was extremely knowledgeable about the Bible, whose cadences he made his own.  He could digress from a theme without getting sidetracked, and return to the topic in a way his listeners didn’t anticipate. 

And he could do it off the cuff.  I once sat at a head table next to Peter, who was to be the evening’s speaker. As the dessert was being served, he produced paper and his fountain pen and made a few sketchy notes.  He was selecting his topic, giving a little thought to structure, and possibly choosing an opening line.  He was introduced, he stood, and never glancing at the paper again, he delivered a talk of wit, complexity, clarity, and perfect length.

Peter had his opinions about the interpretation of the Bible, the way to run an institution, and the worthiness of lobster to be considered a delicacy, but he was at bottom a very private person.  After the coats were on and people departed for their cars, there was a Peter that few of us knew. 

Perhaps that is why so many were eagerly awaiting his memoirs.  He hinted that they would be more comfortably written when he was able to hole up in the privacy of his seaside home.   Alas, like the symphonies of Mozart’s maturity, the memoirs of Peter Gomes are among the masterpieces never given to the world.  But our loss is much more than his speaking or his writing; it is of the man, himself.  He was a person we smiled to see coming down the street and hated to see leave, and now he is gone for good.