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One moment after the last speaker stepped off the stage at Bill Kitchen’s Memorial Service, the high school gym lights shut off. It was the middle of the afternoon, so we could still make each other out to hug and cry together. But we were all a little surprised by its abruptness. I thought, “Wow, they must really want us to head to the reception.” It turns out, it was a power outage, which kindly waited until the least impactful moment to happen, not depriving us of our lights, mics, or cameras until the service was well and truly finished. Bill Kitchen died unexpectedly from a health issue on Monday, September 9th. The news has sent waves of grief across Washington County, yes, but also across Maine, and to friends and family around the world. Three hundred people attended his service yesterday, and another 250 online. If you wanted to attend but couldn’t, it’s now viewable here. All that to say, I’m sorry that today’s Postcard will be brief. Bill was a beloved friend of our family, which is a statement almost every person who ever met him could make. As yesterday’s many tributes illustrated, he was one of those unforgettable people — colorful, artistic, brilliant, creative, passionate, uplifting, sometimes eccentric, and funny. Midway through the service, a clown walked into the gymnasium. It was a serious, clown, too -- giant floppy shoes, perfect makeup, the works. He walked silently along the chairs until he saw where a balloon marked his seat, in the middle of a row. Like anyone finding their seat in a crowded theater, except with giant floppy shoes, the clown shuffled past half a dozen seated guests to reach his seat. He sat. Then he shuffled his way out again and left. No one said a word. It turns out, this was an idea that Bill mentioned in passing to the Police Chief, probably in a light-hearted conversation, sometime this year. He wasn’t planning his service, but when the worst happened, the Town made the clown happen. It was all very Bill. He was so many wonderful things. But above all, Bill Kitchen was someone who could be present in every moment, and with every person, offering a level of focus that we should all aspire to, but which few of us could attain. And it was that level of presence to people that leaves so many of us — so many hundreds of us, at least — feeling like we lost our best friend. I paid tribute to him at the service yesterday, and in the essay I wrote below, and I will likely continue to do so in many ways because I so admire how Bill managed to demonstrate that art is everywhere, even in the seemingly dry world of municipal management. If you do it right.
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