When Covid-19 takes someone close... · 5:51pm Apr 7th, 2020
Sometimes when something affects you in a certain way, you have to spill it all out before you burst.
Being a coward, I can't just post this on Facebook where family will see it and comment, so I will do it here where nobody that I have ever met will comment on the appropriateness of this tribute or wonder why I didn't do it for Aunt So-and-So when she passed away or any of the family drama that goes with social media posting. With that in mind, names are omitted to protect the innocent, because this is still the internet, and any of my followers who felt like stalking me (although seriously, why would you?) and all of that happy horsefeathers.
So yeah... my great uncle passed away at 91, and according to my mom, ten other folks at his assisted living facility also have passed from complications due to Covid-19, so it's there. And while he was two hours away from where I live now, this pandemic has struck home, because that town was home for 23 years of my life. Of course, because of the pandemic, funerals are postponed indefinitely, because other than the fact that it is extremely communicable, the smart people haven't really figured out the specifics of how it is spreading, and thus they've just quarantined everyone based on what little they do know... for safety. It's been weeks, the world will never come out of this the same, and it sucks.
But back to my uncle, who is the real victim here... okay, 91 years old, in a big italian family of 14 he was the second youngest of the brothers, and the last sibling still with us until now. He was my grandmother's sister, and she has been gone for ten years. The siblings who survived cancer usually ended up with Alzheimer's but achieved nonagenarian status. He was both a Grunkle and the Funkle well before the terms were coined, so we never called him either. To our cousin, he wasn't Grandpa, he was just Pa. He hated his italian birth name, so he never went by it unless he legally had to. My parents named me after him... the name he used, not his legal name.
Despite being only one quarter Italian, I identified stronger with this side of the family than the Yankee sides... it probably helped that the Italians all lived on the same street in town, while the Yankee majority had their own tragic backstories that caused them to keep to their introverted selves. The Yankee side always had the Christmases, Easters, and Thanksgivings. The Italian side did Independence Day. And it was awesome.
My great grandmother had been a nonagenarian herself, and before passing had bequeathed her property to the five children who had never married or moved out. They had an inground pool and a side yard that was perfect for whiffle ball games, as well as the annual Independence Day events. My uncle was in charge of the illegal fireworks displays, one of the most memorable being the year that a pinwheel firework flew off of the nail on the pool fence to which it had been affixed and whizzed into their garden, setting the tomato vines on fire. There was lots of swimming, ball games, Dungeons & Dragons, and bad cult movies like Spaceballs, Monster Squad, and Critters.
My cousin was into ghost stories and thriller movies, so my uncle would oblige him with some PG-13 flicks that we weren't old enough to technically watch yet, but did anyway because at least they weren't rated R. This was usually done from the finished basement of my uncle's house, which was (as previously mentioned) up the street from my great grandmother's property with the pool. When it wasn't Independence Day, this was usually the prime hangout location for any sleepovers, because that basement was a paradise. There was a pool table that we never used for shooting pool, and instead turned into blanket and sleeping bag fortresses. Boxing gloves, which my mother never would have permitted us to use if we were at home. Plastic swords and light sabres for more dueling, legos, an old Atari (it was old even then).
My uncle would take us hiking, usually in a reservation on or near the Appalachian Trail. After the law was passed forbidding him from allowing us to ride in the bed of his truck, somehow he was able to fit six of us along with himself in the cab instead. Keep in mind, this wasn't a truck with a second row of seating, either. One particular time we were on a hike and had brought the plastic swords with us in case we ran into a malicious spirit that haunted the trail, and needed to fight it off. One of the swords broke during the hike, and my cousin hid it in a rotten log for some reason. The next day, my uncle recounted to us a news report that he had "heard" about hikers seeing a crazy old man appearing out of nowhere waving a broken plastic sword around and screaming battle cries, and then vanishing in a puff of smoke.
We would go home, and he would make tortellini soup from scratch. It would always be too hot, so we'd need to add ice cubes to cool it down. There was always fruit. Apple, pears, plums, grapes... for all of the junk food that we would eat during our visits, there was plenty of healthy options available, whether we went for them or not. We had boxes of Cracker Jack, but never found the Ring of the Schwartz in ours, no matter how hard we looked.
It was over before I blinked... by the time high school came around, we were too old for hanging out in his basement with out cousin anymore, had made different friends and while Independence Day probably still went on there as always, we just stopped going, probably because Scouting, Band, girlfriends and other summer activities had taken over. I can't even pinpoint when the last time was actually the last time, it just sort of happened... probably when the eldest of the siblings went into Assisted living and one of my cousins took over the Homestead (as it began to be referred to instead of "Great Grandma's House").
Before I knew it, I was in my twenties and my cousin was getting married, and I reconnected with the side of the family that I hadn't in years. We all said we needed to do something again as a family. Five years later I'm the one getting married. We did the dancing game where all couples start on the dance floor and exit according to how long you have been married. He and my aunt won the prize for being the last on the floor, almost sixty years married at the time. Two years later, my grandmother passes, and at the funeral, once again the Italians bring up the fact that it has been too long... we only see each other at weddings and funerals now and should do an Independence Day like we used to, just to get back together again. We're family, after all.
Ten years later, and he's gone. We're not close with the Italians anymore, and I'm missing those days more than ever. It's very Cat's in the Cradle from a certain point of view, and it's like a gut punch, even though he obviously lived a full life with few regrets himself. Kenny Chesney was right... don't blink.
I don't know what else to say.
Oh!
I'm really sorry to hear that. I know it doesn't make it hurt any less, but 91 is a grand old age for a man to reach. He would have lived through World War 2 and must have seen so much in his lifetime.
What! Spaceballs is a classic. :)
I'm sorry. It sounds like there was life and laughter and good memories at least. And I know too well the pain of not seeing the ones you love to be with in far too long. I got to hang out with my best friend from growing up for a couple days ten years ago, one day five years ago, and a couple hours last summer... and those little slices were like life preservers in a stormy sea. But while I can hope we will hang out again, I know you're facing much greater finality.
Don't blink, indeed.