Visiting Cousins

My younger brother and I spent the weekend in Ohio to attend my cousin Michael’s wedding. I hadn’t seen Michael in well over a decade and was humbled to have received an invitation. There have been a confluence of recent events that have led me to want to visit family more often. My uncle’s passing and my cousin’s wedding invitation were two important markers.

My brother and I lounged on a patio upon arrival at the venue and eventually met my aunt (Michael’s mom). Honestly it was nice to see faces and personalities whom I had been estranged from, yet share a genetic line with. As I get older and see the similarities we share in mannerisms and behavioral patterns, I find genetics to be more profound. It’s odd because reuniting with friends can be awkward and conversations can be forced. With my cousins, however, dialogue was an effortlessly flowing river.

In the wedding speeches to celebrate Michael I heard life events that easily could have been mine or my brother’s (loving sports, practicing pro wrestling moves for fun, drawing from an endless source of energy as a kid). It stokes the nature vs nurture debate. How can two people growing up in different states and different circumstances exhibit the same life patterns and struggles? Genetics and chance. Which also begs the question: how much of me is me?

The weather was perfectly conducive to an outdoor wedding (sunny and 75 degrees Fahrenheit) and I was glad the ceremony went off without a hitch. I was also humbled that my extended family was happy to see me. All the credit for the visitation goes to Michael, who was always the best of all of us at making an effort to remain in touch. It was a lesson for me to take the time and visit; the emotional rewards are well worth the effort.

I was caught in a flurry of flight cancellations on the flight back to Saint Louis and am currently sitting in the Charlotte airport (my layover) hoping I don’t have to stay overnight. So far my flight is delayed almost three hours. Eric’s flight was canceled and he’s off to a nearby hotel. We’ll see.

I spent Sunday afternoon drinking coffee with my brother Eric and cousin Katie (Michael’s older sister). We had an interesting conversation about human nature. It was one of those coffee talks that veered a hundred directions and someone landed on human nature.

“We’re basically chimpanzees, so of course we’re inherently violent. Especially men.”

“We’re savages with brains.”

“But with our brains comes the opportunity for self-reflection, and therefore self-restraint.”

“So we create laws and rules to tame ourselves. And therefore many of us are either at war with ourselves or with each other.”

I also had a pleasant conversation with two people whom I would term my “cousin in-laws.” That is, their father is my aunt’s partner. And through our conversation I was reminded of the struggles so many of us are forced to assume, against our own choice, but somehow, incredibly, persevere through. The oldest child died of brain cancer. There is a genetic health condition passed down in their family line. The next youngest is legally deaf. Both parents are legally blind.

And through stories such as these I’m reminded that, point blank, I’m basically just really freakin’ lucky. And I should be humble to be so lucky. I should be grateful that, in spite of some health issues of my own, I’ve had a good run up to this point in time.

I’m also grateful that, though I reunited with my cousins far too late, I learned that I need to take initiative to invest and be curious in their lives, because they’re pretty incredible people and well worth it. Better late than never.

Some Life Reflections

I learned that my uncle passed away earlier this week. It was something of a shock to me because the possibility of his passing wasn’t remotely on my mind. Unlike when my grandfather passed away last year, I had no dreams of a final communication. He was 67.

My first thought is that life is short and precious. He lived a very full life. Longevity in terms of years should never be assumed under any circumstance. I hope for longevity and yet if my own span is 67 years, I’m past the halfway marker. If my own span is less than 67 years, what the hell is the point of planning for retirement?

I find myself constantly moving these days. The realization of my own mortality is part of the reason for that. I suspect that somewhere behind me, Death approaches, scythe in hand. I don’t know how many miles of headway I have. Continuous movement may bide more time. But then again, nothing is guaranteed.

I always had good encounters with my uncle Bill. I didn’t get to know him well enough. I suspect we often feel that way upon the death of a relative.

I remember when he and his daughter drove to Minnesota to watch me compete at the NCAA Swimming Championships. It was my freshman year, which was about seventeen years ago. I remember looking up in the stands when I was preparing to swim and seeing him wearing my college team’s apparel. He was cheering loudly and it meant the world to me. He didn’t know me all that well and certainly had no obligation to attend. His being there really warmed my heart. He struck me as someone with an intense sense of loyalty to family.

He never knew this—in fact my own family never knew this—but he became something of a legend between me and my roommate in college. We always talked about “being tough like Bill.” When culture seemed to weaken, it needed to “toughen up like Bill.” “Bill’s out in weather thirty degrees below zero, working on a construction site to help feed his family, and these college wusses can’t get out of bed for class!” It’s true that he was a construction worker in North Dakota under some of the harshest weather imaginable. He was blue collar to the core, tough as nails, and due to that toughness one would wonder if anything could ever eventually take him down. He also had a warm smile and a wicked sense of humor that I appreciated.

I wish that I made the effort to tell Bill about those stories. I hadn’t spoken to him in a long time, though I wish I had. As I get older and I experience more family members passing away, I sense that we often think of the things we wish we had said, not the things we said. I hope Bill knew that I really appreciated him though, however brief our encounters.

I’ll close this blog with the thought that tomorrow is a new day—hopefully a day devoid of getting caught up in the everyday petty bs concerns—and hopefully the new day brings a new adventure. I’ll think of Bill as I do my best to “just have a good time.” I‘ll make plans, but not retirement plans. There are no plans for my 67th year, or my 66th! My plans involve gravel roads, a desert sky, granite mountains, a bicycle, and a menagerie of wildlife.

A Tribute to My Grandfather

This morning I found out that my grandfather passed away the day before. He was the last of my grandparents still alive, and he fought for life far longer than anyone would have ever given him credit for.

I had a dream not long ago in which I visited Hank. In reality, I had not seen him in years. I am not sure that I could withstand what dementia and age did to him, had I attempted a visit.

I’m not one to believe in fate or in dreams portending reality, but it seemed fitting that I was allowed one final visit in my dream, and that my dream allowed me to see the old Hank, the incisive and witty grandfather whom I knew from childhood. I was able to wish that version of him goodbye. I don’t usually thank the higher powers that be, but I am thankful for that one final encounter. And I’m grateful that in our final meeting, he proved his doubters wrong with a dance and a joke.

My grandpa loved me. I’ll always remember that. I remember the joy he had in making breakfast pancakes for my brothers and me. Damn were they delicious! I also remember his mastery of crossword puzzles and his rapid rate of reading. I remember him reading several books each week; he was a sponge for knowledge. I also remember his fascination with my hobbies, and with my brothers’ hobbies. He was genuinely interested in the shows we watched, the books we read, and the video games we played. He was happy to just watch us doing something that captivated us.

My best memory, one that I’ll always be thankful for, was from a childhood day on a Florida beach. It was decades ago, so the name of the beach escapes me, though I’m pretty sure it was Daytona. I was with my brothers and several cousins. We were playing catch with a football, racing back and forth on the warm sand, sending the football sailing into the air. My grandpa was already rapidly weakening at that time; this was not long before he lost the ability to walk.

He watched us play and I could tell that he wanted to join us more than anything in the world. Finally he got up from his lounge chair and he walked toward us, though the other adults cautioned him to take it slow. “Are you sure you can do this, Hank?” I heard them ask. Yet he shirked them off, he walked forward, and then, to my greatest shock, he ran a little! And he ran towards the football that had recently fallen on the beach.

He bent down and picked up the football, and he threw it towards the kids!

The football did not go far, but the disbelief that I, my brothers, and my cousins had in that moment was incredible. We did not know he could ever do such a thing, but we knew he did it because he wanted to share our fun.

I also had the dark realization that I had just watched him throw the last football he would ever throw, and potentially run for the last time that he would ever run. I have no way of confirming this, but I suspect it’s true. And he did it to have fun with us. I’ll always remember that. There’s something extraordinary in seeing someone perform what we assume to be an everyday action for the last time.

He was always great at surprising people. Even his longevity was a surprise. He was supposed to be the first of the grandparents to go. He loved scotch and he never exercised, after all. His diet wasn’t the best either (to understate his diet).

95 years is an incredible span, and many of those years blessed everyone around him. Whomever you are, my anonymous reader, I wish you could have met him, back when he was healthy. You would’ve liked him. He could’ve told you about more books than you ever knew existed, and he probably would’ve made you laugh more than a few times.

I remember a joke he told me in my teenage years, moments after I went “Number 2” at his house (following a large dinner). I told him that I had just taken a particularly huge dump and he retorted, “I know. Your eyes just turned from brown to blue!”

I’d say he’s in a better place, but I’m not certain that’s true. The concept of an afterlife is a relatively dubious thing. It seems more likely that we return to the place from which we began, which is nothing. But perhaps nothing is a better place, as it is a place still residing completely outside of decrepitude.

Death is not easy, and for Hank, sadly, it was slow and torturous. I suspect if I live for 95 years, my death will be the same. And likely your death will be the same as well, my anonymous reader, should you live long enough. And that’s okay. It’s an unspoken brutality of life, but I find it preferable that we accept it as a natural consequence of age.

Like Hank did so many times, we still have the potential to make something of ourselves today, and to make something special of the occasion, to run when everyone expects us to only crawl, and to throw a football when everyone expects us to hide in the shade and watch from a safe distance.

Hopefully I can meet you one more time, somewhere out there in the cosmos, Hank. If there’s a heaven, it smells like fresh and syrupy pancakes right now.