Shortly after my Dad’s passing nearly 11 years ago, while going through their household archives I discovered a bit of trivia about my deceased Mother’s past that she had never mentioned. “Wow. I never knew that!” (Sorry readers but the “what” is private and unimportant to the message.) My curiosity was piqued, and I thought about whom I might be able to ask for clarification. It occurred to me that the only person still alive that might know the answer was my Aunt Betty. Mom’s brother’s widow. Soon after that realization, I had the opportunity to talk to Aunt Betty at a rare family gathering and she cleared up the only mystery I knew of from Mom’s past. A couple years later, Aunt Betty passed.
This past Saturday was a beautiful day here in Pennsylvania. It was as gorgeous a late-spring day as one could ask for. After a morning walk and a few hours of grueling, tiresome yard work I grabbed a beer and was enjoying the shade and breeze under the big oak tree in our front yard. As I marveled at how big the oak has grown in the 34 years we’ve lived here, my phone rang. It was my cousins letting me know that Paula had died. Paula was a close relation on Mom’s side of the family and the last remaining of my tribal elders. Everyone on Dad’s side including Dad had passed years ago, and Mom’s side has dwindled since with Paula’s husband Bill passing a few years ago.
Some of my most fond memories, especially of the holiday season, revolve around Bill and Paula and their family (my cousins). To her last days, Paula lived in the old house she grew up in and where I’ve eaten countless holiday meals and gathered with family nearly every holiday season for the last 58 years. I will miss Paula and I will miss those holidays gathered in the snug living room, giant Christmas tree in the corner with twinkling ornaments, and a fire crackling in the fireplace.
Aside from the sadness of the inevitable passing of a favorite family elder, the realization dawned on me that that’s it: All of the senior members of my childhood family are gone. It is said that one does not feel old until they lose their parents. I can attest to that, but that feeling is greatly magnified when you realize that your’s is the next generation of the family to be lost.
My first exposure to death was, like most, the loss of grandparents. I never knew my grandmother on Dad’s side and barely remember “Pop Pop”. He was, as I recall, a sweet old man with a really cool 50s vintage car that he drove until he couldn’t drive anymore. I stayed at his house a couple times as a child and I remember him rocking in a great upholstered rocking chair we kept in the kitchen for his visits. I somewhat remember being disgusted by the fact that he couldn’t eat meat but still liked the taste so he would chew up a piece of steak and then put the remnants on his plate. I don’t remember his death or funeral.
On Mom’s side, I only remember that her step-father passed in his sleep like we’d all like to. He was a good man who loved driving his car, football, and smoking cigars. Whenever I stayed the night with them, we would go to McDonald’s but only after he saw the kickoff of whatever football game was coming on. His was the first funeral I vaguely remember.
When I grew old enough to be more cognizant of death, it introduced itself in the most violent way . . . twice. Both involved close high school friends who watched too many Dukes of Hazard episodes and died suddenly in violent car crashes while running from the police. Neither had done anything particularly wrong and we will never know why they destroyed their young lives with a foolish act. I can tell you that in my life, there has been almost nothing harder than the funeral of a teenaged friend.
My freshman year of college, we lost my Grandmother. She was the sweetest woman ever and lived her last 4 or 5 years with us. She was my buddy. Each night we would watch M*A*S*H reruns in her room at our house. She and I often went to dinner together at “The Bait Box” in Greenwich, NJ. Mom sometimes fancied herself a designer chef and tried to come up with unique and fun designer chef type meals. Once when she and Dad were heading out to a function and my brother was off to college, Mom left us some spinach pasta and left over beef stew. That green pasta looked like a pile of worms ready to crawl off the plate. Grandmom and I stared at our plates and each other. She asked “Want to go to the Bait Box?” I jumped and said “I’ll get the car keys.” She was on kidney dialysis, but had some other issues that ultimately led to a stroke. She passed in the hospital. I know Mom was disappointed I didn’t go with her to see Grandmom in the ICU but I really didn’t want to remember her any other way than wrapped up in her warm snuggie, watching an episode of M*A*S*H and laughing with me.
You might ask what has led me to head down this somewhat morbid version of memory lane. It’s a valid question.
After Mom passed in 2009, I can’t count the number of times that I almost picked up the phone to call her, talk to her, or ask a question about something I couldn’t remember. Same with Dad. They are such a part of our lives for so long that we just assume they will always be there. In this busy life, it is easy to brush aside that call or text from Mom or Grandma. It is easy to stare at your phone, half listening while your Uncle relates a war story or retells a family tale you’ve heard dozens of times. All too often we don’t make time in our busy lives for more than a cursory visit or phone call with our elders. We tell ourselves “I’ll call tomorrow”. Tomorrow comes and goes. Days, weeks, months pass without us talking to our senior family members who probably had great influence on our lives whether we know it or not. Then one day the news comes that they are gone. Depending on the person this news might be greeted with a touch of sadness, the feeling of obligation to “do something”, or it might hit like a freight train. More importantly, the loss of our tribal elders is like a crumbling wall. When enough pieces fall out, the building collapses and nobody can ever rebuild it exactly as it was. There comes a day when you no longer have anyone to call to ask about family events from the past, a distant cousin’s name, or anyone with shared memories of your younger self.
I strongly encourage you, if you still have the opportunity, to regularly talk to and listen to your tribal elders be they your parents, aunts uncles, cousins or friends. Visit them. Call them. Maybe take them to breakfast. I promise they will be delighted with your company. Soak up their voices and memories. Once they are gone, those voices will be silent and their memories lost. Once they are gone, you will wish you could have spent just a little more time with them and that you had tried harder to do so. Don’t wait until tomorrow because it may be too late.
Bring it On 