Branches

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.