He knew perfection, and lived it

© St. Petersburg Times,
published October 22, 2001

John Durney had class.

He was dashing and debonair, a perfect match for the expensive three-piece suits and capes he loved to wear. He drove a Rolls-Royce and looked like he belonged behind the wheel. He lectured worldwide for the Salvador Dali Museum, and so carefully crafted his own handlebar mustache that he actually resembled the famous Spanish artist.

He wrote poetry, studied art and music, gave heroically to his community and proudly demonstrated that a man can still be charismatic, energetic and romantic well beyond retirement age.

You got the feeling John Durney would live to be 100 or more, and if you were his friend, you hoped he wouldn't fall to the calamities that old age brings to everyone else. This wasn't a man for a hospital bed or nursing home. Just last year, at age 83, he crawled up and down a tall ladder to paint around the windows of the two-story cabin in the Adirondack Mountains where he and wife, Ann, enjoyed the summers overlooking Schroon Lake, about 60 miles south of where New York meets Canada.

He fought valiantly to hang onto youth, keeping his body trim and his mind sharp. But he knew time was running out. Wouldn't it be great, he thought, to have one more sports car, maybe another Morgan like the one he owned in the 1950s. So earlier this year, he took a train to Virginia to consider placing an order for one of the hand-made British gems. When they told him there was a seven-year wait, Durney said he wasn't sure he had that kind of time.

So he bought a motorcycle instead. He had owned others in his youth. Riding them made him feel free.

Most folks start boarding up their cabins on Schroon Lake about Labor Day, but the Durneys didn't plan to return to their home on the Pithlachascotee River in New Port Richey until November. Forty years of Florida living really makes you appreciate the falling leaves, and John felt especially attached to upstate New York where he was born.

Rare loons would appear on the lake once the people left, and the Durneys enjoyed their songs. In this solitude, John could reflect on a long and fruitful life, if he wished, although chances are he mostly planned his next exotic trip. He wasn't much for looking back.

But his was such a rich history, including his years as mayor of Port Richey and New Port Richey. He earned great esteem as a small town politician, arguing before Congress in 1969 to force the release of funds dedicated many years earlier for dredging the Pithlachascotee. Silt had made the river mouth so shallow that boaters could not navigate to the gulf, and the local economy suffered. Today, on their way to open waters, boaters pass a spoil island known as Durney Key.

He built a thriving liquid petroleum business and a unique home on property once owned by Pasco's first settlers. He served as a municipal judge and flew airplanes. He dedicated time and money to many charities and truly believed he had a calling to help people less fortunate.

Oh, yes, and he wrote very well. It was his love of the written word that led him to engage this newspaper editor in conversation, and to challenge us to pay close attention to the community.

One need only read his poetry to realize his depth of thoughtfulness, and his sense of place. Upon returning to the Adirondacks of his youth, Durney wrote this, which is part of a book currently in production called Tall Grass:

Adirondack Shanghai

I looked for grapes in my vineyard, and expected to find me there

I spoke to the boat.

It was old, too.

It did not remember me

Though I had rowed it well

When it was born.

The sleek, ageless Adirondack skiff still looked young,

Yet it was old in years

When we first met

In the dawn of my youth.

The old swing still hung on the veranda,

Overlooking the lake.

How many snows had covered it?

How many springs had it seen weep

Yet . . . still the swing is young.

Age has taken its toll upon us all

Yet for these old friends

Youth was but a bolt

A nut

A can of paint away.

If only my youth could be rekindled

by such a magic wand.

On Sept. 11, the Durneys were on the maiden voyage of the Norwegian Sun, having steamed from Southampton to LeHarve, Cork, Glasgow, Reykjavik, Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. They were headed to New York, where their son Timothy planned to get his kayak club to paddle out to meet the ship near the Statue of Liberty.

Passengers began buzzing about a disaster in New York, and soon they were lined up in front of televisions watching CNN broadcast the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The Durneys raced for a telephone to call Tim, whose computer business was near the doomed twin towers.

Tim and his family avoided injury, but the Durneys' plans changed as did the world.

The Norwegian Sun docked in Boston, and John and Ann headed to Schroon Lake. They had reservations to fly to Munich, Germany, on Oct. 13 to visit friends, but decided to cancel for two reasons: They wanted to visit with their son, and international air travel so soon after the attacks might be too dangerous.

John would have appreciated the irony.

On Saturday, Oct. 13, the weather was perfect as the Durneys drove down to the Saratoga train station to pick up Tim for the weekend. They had a nice lunch and planned to meet friends later for dinner when John decided to take a ride on his new Honda.

Just as he had the perfect tuxedo for the formal ball or the perfect costume for the masquerade party, John had the perfect clothes for riding a motorcycle, including a brown leather bomber jacket and matching boots. He cared about looking good, and it was obvious.

Sometime after 3 o'clock, he turned onto an open stretch of Interstate 87. Traffic was light, the sun was bright and the sky deep blue. For some reason, John slammed on his brakes. Maybe an animal ran across the road. Nobody knows, because there was only one witness -- the driver of a van who slammed into the motorcycle.

By Sunday evening, word got around to John's friends in Florida as Ann, his wife and best friend for almost three decades, planned a celebration of his life.

There is no magic wand, or nut or bolt. This special man has moved on to his reward, and though the loss is sudden, it brings with it a sad smile. We don't see the wreckage, only a beautiful spirit with a Dali mustache cruising through the red and yellow maple leaves of autumn, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying life to the fullest -- to the very end.

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