The trouble with eulogizing Denis Munro is that one wants to consult Denis Munro. His prose was lean, his words precise and his recall phenomenal. He enjoyed language in all forms and saved newspaper clippings for humorous reference. Of particular interest were the obituaries in the Perthshire Advertiser and bereaved family members who, much to Denis’s amusement, tried their hand at poetry. One in particular stood his test of time:
The Last Trump sounded
Gabriel said “come”
The pearly gates opened
And in walked Mum
“And in walked Mum!!” He would repeat the line with the same joy as the first time he read it decades earlier. And he was quick to point out that, comedic gravitas notwithstanding, it was actually a fine piece of writing. “Not a single flabby or superfluous word.” The same could be said of his own words, both written and spoken. This was not a man you wanted to debate if you preferred your ego intact. His precision and humor were apparent from first meeting him when I was a kid. He sent an Oor Wullie Christmas annual to my brother and me in America and inscribed it: “If success eludes you on the ‘boomer’, try a dose of Scottish humour.” Nothing made him happier than flexing his wit with precise delivery and seeing it land effectively.
If superfluous words stirred his disfavor they were nothing next to exotic foods. Denis was food phobic to an extent deserving of a university thesis paper or Netflix documentary. It wasn’t just that he’d turn his nose up at things like garlic or alien sauces; they triggered actual panic at his core. His biggest fear was being invited to a dinner party and presented with something he deemed unpalatable – which for Denis covered just about anything short of porridge or unsalted nuts. And yet he made it to these parties happily and ready to flex his packaged line: “I’ve a limited range with cuisine; it’s my only shortcoming.”
This was a man who enjoyed people and the feeling was reciprocated. He couldn’t walk down the High Street without half a dozen “stop ‘n’ chats.” Most of us like to think we spread good cheer but people were genuinely happy to see Denis. He had no taste for alcohol, either. But this didn’t stop him from spending many a Friday evening in the Greyfriars pub, nursing an orange juice and regaling the crowd with his voluminous stories and witty banter. I marveled at his energy for holding court stone sober when it takes me several whiskies just to prevent bolting for the exit. But this was my relationship with Denis: We were one and the same yet coming at the world from opposite angles. After his first trip to California with his wife Kate he penned a poem for my parents titled “A Tribute Tae The Monacoes O’ Greenbrae.” The stanza about my brother and me includes the lines:
Ane’s fair, douce but quick, and uncannily fit
He’s a man wha’ll excel at life’s races
His brither has the wits o’ the pauckiest
Yet, twixt his ears there are unexplained spaces
I believe it was those “unexplained spaces” on both sides that kept Denis and me coming back for a conversation that went on for more than forty years. We recognized something in the other that rang true and something else that was less familiar yet oddly satisfying. I would have favored him regardless, given his long history with my mother dating back to their childhood and South Inch Terrace. But Denis had a kind of idiosyncratic affability that made him both engaging and interesting. Nobody was funnier and nobody was better with words.
What began as a letter-writing correspondence evolved into frequent emails and, in recent years, daily Whatsapp conversations. It was never a chore and felt like a rare perk of modern technology, being able to check in with Scotland and Denis for a weather update, funny story or political debate. And then, just like that, it ended. Denis confided some things in me and in me is where they shall remain. Whatever he left behind to be pieced together, like this eulogy, will have to be considered minus his valued input. Selfishly, I didn’t feel that we were done and there are times when I’ve been angry. But at others I’ll reflect on one of his stories or jokes and share it with someone close. It isn’t such a bad deal, having known Denis Munro.
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