The call came. Old Aunt and
Uncle, “Sis 'n’ Dick,” so connected by love and family they died within a week
of each other. A California trip justified by two beautiful souls who
led full and joyous lives.
No matter how poor, you got
to scrape together funds for the big family funeral. In my case, heal the guts
of the mobile home--the old van--also. Paint peeling and plastic cracking, its
heart was still strong. Like the aging hick driving. The cooling system repair,
in the rock front yard, untested, added a touch of almost-danger.
The only son able to score
bereavement pay rode along, his relative introversion overcome by road trip
gusto. We’d spent many nights on the dirt mattresses of our ultimate sleep,
backpacking and primitive-camping, so van living would be “uptown.” Camping, to
keep it Cheap, near well-kept west coast towns where bits of my aimless
youth had been well spent.
In fact my biggest connection
to Uncle Dick was showing up at his beachfront place at 18, expecting to be
taken in. He was a hard working second generation Californian who had by then
raised four good kids and a good fortune, with two sons left at home close to
my age. Patient, wise, calm, a gentleman who, out of business skill or genuine
love of humanity, spoke with you as if you were the most important person in
the world. I thus assumed my welcome; he took me in without a blink, for most
of 1977. Of course, open-hearted Sis, my mother’s older sister, was just as
much to thank. I realize now their parenting style inspired mine later, for the
better.
My mobile home’s “cruise
control" quit working and I had to use my foot, old school! It looked uglier than usual in the paved beach playgrounds of pretend
bohemians and the semi-rich. After an afternoon playing in the
surf, we cleaned up in the cold water showers, put on our best clothes, and
went to what would be a short and sober “wake.” Upon our early arrival, we
changed back into casual clothes, in the church parking lot, since we’d
over-dressed (a rare event indeed).
Happy families full of Grand and Great Grand Children. Overwhelming to see so much family you see too
seldom, or have never seen.
The cousins who
made it compared lives, traded addresses, wondered sadly where are the missing.
Grandchildren of affluence took turns at a microphone, mostly telling of being
taught how to work at Grandpa’s house. He had been a child during the First
Great Depression, as a teenager hitchhiked to his own Grand Parents farm in
Nebraska, to work.
Sis was the same age, raised in deep poverty, daughter of an
oft-unprosperous Arizona miner. They met in San Diego after both joined the
United States Navy in 1941. He survived the attack on Pearl Harbor, a
miraculous tale he never mentioned. If he gave advice, he managed to make the
recipient feel it was his or her own idea, and a brilliant one at that.
Their successful lives never
altered the humility and gratitude they felt for it. It seems like every member
of this couple’s tribe is happy and kind. My son, who calls himself “ignostic”
(don’t know, don’t care) said, all dogma being just dogma, if he had to join a
church he would join theirs--”...they’re all so darned nice!”
Back in parking-camp, we
slept with the sound of surf at our feet, the endless hiss of the Interstate at
our heads, and the thundering of an occasional train between; our windows and
doors all open and our “stuff” piled in the front seat and on the ground. Our
unit looks not worth robbing, and anyone who wants our crappy stuff can have it
anyhow.
Next morning an early swim
made us a minute late. The modest Patriarch didn't like to be the center of attention, or inconvenience anyone, so he had insisted on a one hour service, starting and ending on time. After, gathering at the beach,
goodbyes, condolences, hugs--and a bit more swimming. You don’t really hope to
see each other again too soon, since funerals seem to be what it takes.
Son and I camped in the hills
just up from the beach that night. The campground was full, all around us music
and laughter in several languages. We resumed our place in the brotherhood of
everybody, and slept well.
In ancient times, ancestors
were often worshiped. Why not? The Wise Elder, Patient but Firm. The Hearth Goddess,
feeding and teaching and loving, Disciplined but Kind. What more could one
aspire to? How fortunate to have such ancestors! Our time on the planet is too
short to quibble over details. Love is all that matters. In their honor I will
try harder to be nice to everyone.
One last ocean swim next
morning. The waves form and break, the sun breaks out of the fog, life goes on and on. Goodbye ocean. Goodbye Sis ‘n’ Dick. Your good
lives are in the heads and hearts of everyone you touched, spilling forward
without end.
“Each life that touches ours
for good
Reflects thine own great
mercy, Lord;
Thou sendest blessings from
above
Thru words and deeds of those
who love.”
--Karen Lynn Davidson, from Mormon hymn
#293,
“Each Life That Touches Ours for Good”
Anyone interested in the
lives of these folks can read more. They both researched and wrote books about themselves, their relatives,
and their ancestors. You can look 'em up!
