When Delayed By Three-Inch Hailstones
Feb. 24th, 2009 02:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dr_pretentiousMy Calvert relatives throw really good funerals. I kept looking over my shoulder in the Unitarian sanctuary, expecting Uncle Bill to arrive, since most of his favorite people were there, and he'd have had such a good time. We had great fun telling stories about him and passing around old photos. The human brain is such a cobbled-together mess of barely compatible hardware--how many times in one hour is it possible to be surprised that the person whose funeral you're attending is not going to walk in late? Anyhow, you know how when the program for a memorial tells you you're in for a "celebration of the life," sometimes that's what happens, and sometimes it isn't? This was the real thing.
Bill lived a life that was easy to celebrate--long, with a happy marriage and three deeply good men for sons. A life full of opera, and scientific research, and three decades of music advocacy on the local school board. He outlived my grandfather, his older brother, by almost 40 years, and for all that time, he did his best to stand in my grandfather's stead for our little branch of the family. I have only one memory of my Calvert grandfather, very fragmentary and perhaps just an extrapolation from family stories. Bill, though, I have at the piano. I have him there right now. He's playing one of A.A. Milne's songs from Hums of Pooh:
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up and isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery.
It isn't in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run through my head.
It isn't really anywhere.
It's somewhere else instead.
I've been singing that song a lot lately for Gareth, who would spend all day practicing his upstairs crawl if I let him.
My mom's sister got me sorting through my memories with a purpose. "I tried cursing God," she said, "but that didn't really work. I concluded that the only thing to do when you lose someone whose loss is unacceptable is try to become more like them."
What would that mean, to become more like Bill?
He told me a wild story once about his local school board's quest to hire a new superintendent. They thought they'd found the right person, and the next step was to travel from their coastal Connecticut town to the Appalachian bits of western Maryland to see the guy in action. On the way, Bill and his fellow search committee members suffered delayed and redirected flights, rental cars breaking down in the middle of nowhere late at night, a storm of three inch hailstones, everything short of a rain of frogs. After the hailstones episode, I said, "If I'd been on the search committee, I'd have wondered whether that might be a sign we were chasing the wrong guy."
"Oh, no," Bill said mildly, "it was a test of our faith."
The perseverance, I've got. It's the equanimity to go with the perseverance that's kind of hit or miss. My perseverance is fueled mostly by pure ornery stubbornness. Maybe I can figure out how he fueled his. Whatever it was, its burning was clean, steady, and bright.
Bill lived a life that was easy to celebrate--long, with a happy marriage and three deeply good men for sons. A life full of opera, and scientific research, and three decades of music advocacy on the local school board. He outlived my grandfather, his older brother, by almost 40 years, and for all that time, he did his best to stand in my grandfather's stead for our little branch of the family. I have only one memory of my Calvert grandfather, very fragmentary and perhaps just an extrapolation from family stories. Bill, though, I have at the piano. I have him there right now. He's playing one of A.A. Milne's songs from Hums of Pooh:
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up and isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery.
It isn't in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run through my head.
It isn't really anywhere.
It's somewhere else instead.
I've been singing that song a lot lately for Gareth, who would spend all day practicing his upstairs crawl if I let him.
My mom's sister got me sorting through my memories with a purpose. "I tried cursing God," she said, "but that didn't really work. I concluded that the only thing to do when you lose someone whose loss is unacceptable is try to become more like them."
What would that mean, to become more like Bill?
He told me a wild story once about his local school board's quest to hire a new superintendent. They thought they'd found the right person, and the next step was to travel from their coastal Connecticut town to the Appalachian bits of western Maryland to see the guy in action. On the way, Bill and his fellow search committee members suffered delayed and redirected flights, rental cars breaking down in the middle of nowhere late at night, a storm of three inch hailstones, everything short of a rain of frogs. After the hailstones episode, I said, "If I'd been on the search committee, I'd have wondered whether that might be a sign we were chasing the wrong guy."
"Oh, no," Bill said mildly, "it was a test of our faith."
The perseverance, I've got. It's the equanimity to go with the perseverance that's kind of hit or miss. My perseverance is fueled mostly by pure ornery stubbornness. Maybe I can figure out how he fueled his. Whatever it was, its burning was clean, steady, and bright.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 08:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 12:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 01:22 pm (UTC)GREAT uncles
Date: 2009-02-25 05:38 am (UTC)Your experience reminds me of the funeral for my great uncle on my mom's side. I unfortunately never met him but the funeral was like a big family reunion. We have been keeping up with his children, grand children and great grand children. It was nice for my son to get to play with his 3rd cousins (who live not too far away).
Your uncle himself reminds me of my other great uncle, John Young, who was like a substitute grandfather to me. He died on his 93rd birthday a few years ago. As a teenager my father spent summers with his aunt and uncle working on his Christmas tree farm in Vermont. When we were little we visited every summer to play with the cousins (3 of us born the same month), swim in the pond and catch frogs. The small area of full grown, uncleared pines was amazingly peaceful. So many wonderful memories; thanks for the reminder.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-25 05:46 am (UTC)She also told me about standing up and saying that, and how, when her voice broke for a moment, she felt your hand on her back, comforting her. I just wanted to say thank you for that, since I couldn't be there to do it.
And, in case Steve didn't tell the story on Sunday: when the boys were growing up, Bill was annoyed by jelly leaking out the sides of the pb&j sandwiches, so he set to fixing this. He figured out that if you build up peanut butter around the edge of the bread, it will seal with the other piece of bread, and jelly won't leak out. I'll never look at or make that sandwich the same way again. All thanks to Uncle Bill.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-25 06:03 am (UTC)Thank you, too, for everything you did to make my mom's long visit work out. It was easier for me to bear not being able to come up at the end, knowing she'd be keeping me in the loop, and that she had lots of mutual support going on up there.
We missed you Sunday. I hope you're feeling better. We have notions of coming to CT for a visit in April or May.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-25 06:08 am (UTC)I wish I could have been there, and am looking forward to the next opportunity to see you. And to finally meet Gareth!
Bill and the PB&J
Date: 2009-02-25 03:07 pm (UTC)R -- Thank you for your bed (sorrrrrrrrrrrry you had to stay w/ Ryan) and good company.
In re: PB&J...
Actually, Bill's method required peanut butter on both slices of bread, building up the edges of one, and finally filling the center with jelly. That way, the bottom PB sealed with the top PB, encasing the water-based jelly in an oil-based envelope.
Somewhat more importantly, he invented the paristoltic pump. Ask your medical and chemical pals how important it is. Most could not imagine life without it. What a guy!
I tried it. It works. Transport would be much less messy. HOWEVER, all bets are off once you breach the levee, e.g., bite in or slice.
Re: Bill and the PB&J
Date: 2009-02-25 03:12 pm (UTC)Re: Bill and the PB&J
Date: 2009-02-26 07:31 am (UTC)I remember that his coffee table was a chunk of the first batch of formica ever made, with holes drilled in it for legs, but I don't remember what exactly his involvement was in the invention of formica.
Re: Bill and the PB&J
Date: 2009-02-25 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-25 03:50 pm (UTC)