I went to the wake of a distant
relative yesterday. Well, I suppose not all that distant, as distant
goes, but not close. He was my father’s second cousin. What I found
out from some research my sister did before I went is that their
fathers were first cousins, and those men’s fathers were brothers.
My father always referred to him simply
as his cousin Denny. I don’t think I ever met him, even though he
and his wife lived just outside DC in Virginia (I grew up in the
Maryland suburbs). What I knew of him was that, for as long as I can
remember, he’d call my father on the occasional Saturday or Sunday
afternoon, usually to talk about genealogy—some new fact he’d
uncovered, or a question that my father, who also dabbled in family
history, might know the answer to. But he had a tendency to go on and
on, and inevitably Dad would be rolling his eyes or mock-dramatically
shaking his fist at whoever had handed the phone to him. These calls
could, it seems now, last an hour or more.
Denny and Dad's contact was mostly by phone. But sometime in the last 10 or
15 years, Dad went to an anniversary party for Denny and his wife—I
remember because it was in a distant Virginia suburb and involved a combination of driving and the subway
and walking, plus bringing my mother,
who was already showing signs of dementia. An ordeal, in other words,
from Dad’s perspective.
Denny continued to call after my father
moved into assisted living. The last time I remember him phoning was
probably close to a year ago, when I happened to be visiting. At this
point, no one called my father anymore outside of his kids—it
was just too hard to carry on a conversation. But Denny did. I don’t
even remember what they were talking about (inasmuch as I could make
any of it out from Dad’s side). All I recall was hearing Dad repeat
the same questions over and over and over again, creating a circular
conversation that Denny—with many years of experience in keeping
someone on the line—stuck with until it was time to say goodbye.
At the wake yesterday, I met Denny’s
wife. She was charming and sharp and remembered my
parents well—I should have realized they had a whole social
history, dating back 50 or more years, long before the genealogy
phone calls began. I told her how much my father enjoyed the
calls—which I actually think he did, despite the eye rolls—and how we as a
family especially appreciated Denny’s contact in later years.
Also at the wake were several of
Denny’s nephews and nieces and their spouses (he didn’t have kids
of his own), all of them about my age or a bit older. We talked about
my tenuous relationship to their uncle, how I wanted to be there in
Dad’s place to pay my respects because he's in "memory care" now (with no phone at all) and isn’t able to get out. We small-talked about
our traditional Catholic names (Michael, Patrick, William,
Matthew, Katherine, etc.) and how different young people’s names
today are. They were very friendly and welcoming, but I was so
nervous—my hairline was dripping with sweat in that way it has, and
I don’t even have hair anymore! I was at the wake for a total of
about 30 minutes, then I had to get back to work.
On the Metro, it struck me all at once
that I was related by blood to probably half of the dozen or so strangers
in that small room, and the realization practically took my breath
away.
Labels: cousins, family, father, relatives
