Just returned from my uncle's memorial service. Caught up with some long lost relatives and generally meandered down Memory Lane, listening and sharing experiences of the man and of his close family members and friends.
Times and places, bittersweet.
The many stories of heavy bourbon filling the air of the alternating households at the large raucous gatherings for family holiday events and birthdays bounced off the rooms and patios at the two separate spots where our extended group of mourners gathered for my uncle's send off. Mourners might not be the best word in this case, certainly a sadness over his death, but a realization that my uncle lived ninety-three years of life to the absolute hilt reminded those assembled to never forget to live life, have fun and share some joy on the way. And so the group reverted to what the old timers in the group (I'm now included on that list) have always done best- talk, drink, laugh, argue and share with those around you, and if the rest of the neighborhood hears many of the profound off-the-cuff imbibed comments, well, so much the better for the neighbors.
I went to the formal memorial at the old Congregational Church with my sister, but she had to leave right after on yet another cross country haul back to Pennsylvania with a load of batteries in her 53' trailer with her faithful dog, Shiloh, riding shotgun. Strange to see your little sister so far removed from college honors and a life in government service and farming now filling out the last years of work behind the wheel of a big rig. She never felt comfortable in the local in-law gatherings of years past, and being present for just the formal affair without the awkward reminders of not quite fitting into the various family table settings worked out perfectly for her schedule and temperament.
I was curious to see my late cousin's daughter and son, and maybe share a story or two about their dad, who they knew a lot less about than their grandfather who they both had come to say their final goodbyes to. Juliana radiated his hair color, and his determination. Dylan wore his mouth , chin and eyes almost exactly.
I spun a true tale to Dylan of a long ago moment in a mountain setting where their grandfather has climbed up the tree where our tree house had just been erected about twenty feet above the ground in a lodge pole pine not far from the cabin our families shared. The tree house had been a male family project with my dad, my uncle, my cousin and I all taking parts in the project. The adults doing all the heavy lifting amid refreshments of beer, sodas and hot dogs. My cousin and I were perched near the trunk of the tree and scooted closer to allow Uncle Tom onto the flooring to admire the work and view. He had clambered up with a bourbon in hand. He made two steps and went straight through a couple of weak board planks straight down, and into the soft dirt and pine needles which cushioned his fall a bit. My father who was to follow next exclaimed wonderingly, "Tom, you didn't spill a drop!" To which my uncle, shaken but not stirred, replied, "A marine never loses his provisions."
It was one of those remarkable moments which will always be frozen in my mind. My Uncle Tom was a blessed man who had born the worst at Iwo Jima and Guadal Canal during World War II, and later at the 38th Parallel in Korea without a physical scratch. The burden of what he saw and experienced in the war he took to the grave alone. He never shared those memories with anyone. If he told his wife, my lovely Aunt Bobbie, she took all Tom's war secrets with her many years ago. My uncle and dad were very close, and had each others' backs for decades. Not a word to my father, who had served in the Army Air Corps during the war years, on the battles subject ever. Only those who were there during those horrible war moments alone would know what happened, and could fully understand the terrible wrathful meanings of warfare. He remarked in the local newspaper in 2007 in an article on the Kern County Veterans Memorial, "No one hates war as much as those who were called to fight in one!"
A last teaching moment.
And so the loud and boisterous holiday or just family gatherings of the extended local tree line was always a full glass of bourbon or gin amid the chatter. I came to grips with the adults need to unwind during the 50s and 60s years ago in my hippie days when I realized how tough life had been, and what great sacrifices most of this generation had born. As kids briefly in the roaring twenties with Prohibition , only to meet the Great Depression and widespread deprivation until the largest scale war in recorded history comes along. After that, any sane person could use a drink or two.
And so, goodbye to the last of my local bloodline ties of the Greatest Generation. Thank you for getting us this far, and for trying to bestow something a bit better than what most could hope for before your arrival on this rock in space. It seems unnerving to me that the lessons you tried to teach fell on so many deaf ears, and we find ourselves coming full circle after 90 years time into the same dark economic world from which you sprang.
My dog looks hopefully for another small taste of hops and barley, but the bottle is empty. We head inside and close the door.
Until the next time. Thanks for stopping by.
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