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Posts Tagged ‘death’

A little thematic music.

A cousin of mine on my mother’s side died a few weeks ago while traveling abroad on business.

He was a smart, funny guy, easy to like, and his passing came as a rude shock.

I think my folks felt the loss especially deeply, more so than I did. They were closer in age to my cousin than I was, and had more opportunity to connect and interact with him as adults. (I was usually one of the kids in the room when I was around him.)

My parents are also a decade older than my cousin was, and I think his death struck them as a reminder of mortality.

Of course, they already knew life doesn’t last forever. But as they get into their 70s, maybe these farewells register a little bit more than they used to.

(The last time I sat in with my dad’s college band, one of the other members mentioned that he’d recently attended the funeral of a high school friend, and noted that these things were becoming more frequent.)

This week’s calendar entry is the result of extrapolation. I don’t know for sure what was going through my grandparents’ heads.

But I’m guessing they went to bed this night feeling some of the same twinges of aging and mortality that my parents seem to have recently experienced.

July 11, 1973.

July 11, 1973. The Chicago Cubs are in first place. Like all things mortal, that will not last.

Jeanie Taylor was my grandmother’s best friend from Springfield, Mass., going back at least to junior high and maybe to elementary school. My dad says:

She was a fun-loving woman of Scottish ancestry whom I think worked for Mass Mutual (or some such insurance company), owned a car, and before [my grandfather] intervened the two of them would hop in the car and travel.  I have photos from a summer cottage somewhere in New England, Niagara Falls, etc. 

Jeanie was very tall, never married, and pretty much always had a smile. She visited us many times in Stamford.

She shows up every once in a blue moon on the calendars from the ’60s and early ’70s.

Sept. 2, 1971.

Sept. 2, 1971. A visit with Jeanie and her mother, whose first name was Elizabeth but who was invariably referred to among my family as “Mrs. Taylor.”

I also have pictures from the late 1950s that show her vacationing with my family, indicating how close she stayed with my grandma into adulthood.

Jeanie Taylor, July 1959, Becket, Massachusetts. It was a very goodyear.

Jeanie Taylor, July 1959, Becket, Massachusetts. It was a very goodyear.

Fourteen years to the month after this picture was taken, my grandma’s best friend was admitted to the hospital in Springfield. (That’s my grandma’s handwriting on the first calendar entry above, taking note of it.)

I don’t know what the problem was, but it seems to have been serious.

Jeanie Taylor died a little more than a month later, on Aug. 15, 1973. She was 58 — about six months younger than my grandma, and four years younger than my grandfather.

Usually I have some sort of perspective to add to these excursions I go on; but not this week. I’ve never lost anyone my age to whom I was that close. One or two acquaintances and former colleagues I still think of here and there, but no really close friends.

I can only guess what it feels like to lose someone that close, or to come close to losing them. A cold chill, maybe, or a nagging fear that won’t go away.

I’ll know what it’s like someday — unless I go first and leave my friends with the feeling, which I suppose is a possibility.

For now I can only sympathize with my grandmother, decades after the fact, as she faces the possibility that time is running out on her perpetually smiling best friend … and by extension on herself, and the man she loves, and others she’s known well.

This “life” thing, it cuts you down at the knees sometimes.

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Last year at this time, I wrote a pretty freakin’ epic April Fool’s Day post. If you missed it the first time, you might want to check it out. This year for April Fool’s Day I will be 100 percent factual, and a whole lot less entertaining.

It’s funny how little decisions can make a big difference.

# # # # #

In the first week of March 1991, an ice storm of historic ferocity hit my hometown of Rochester, New York.

My family, and many others, went without power for a week as Rochester Gas and Electric pieced its shattered transmission and distribution systems back together. The schools in my suburb stayed closed that whole week.

The storm caused massive damage to trees all over Monroe County; the bright orange Asplundh tree-grinding trucks were as common as cockroaches for a week or two.

My maternal grandfather (not the guy who kept the calendars, but the grandpa from the other side of the family) was living in Rochester at that point, having moved up from Connecticut a few years before.

He’d had heart bypass surgery earlier in that still-young year. (Edit: I’ve been corrected in the comments. It was not bypass surgery, but what my father describes as “one of those roto-rooting of the arteries things.” It was still a heart procedure, anyway.)

But when he saw tree branches strewn all over his yard, his work ethic compelled him to go out and deal with them, as any homeowner would.

My grandmother, trying to watch out for him, would call our house to report with alarm: “He’s out in the yard again!”

And at least once in the weeks after the storm — maybe more than that — my mother and I drove over to his house and forcibly escorted him out of his yard, as he protested the entire time that he didn’t want to be babied.

I don’t know how much yard work he managed to sneak in while no one was looking. I never really got a chance to ask.

On March 28, 1991 — 22 years ago this past week — my maternal grandfather walked into the front room of his house, sat down in his recliner and had an instantaneous thunderclap of a heart attack. He was gone when the EMTs arrived, and they didn’t take long.

He’d smoked plenty of cigars and eaten plenty of red meat in his life. So March 28, 1991, might have been his time even without the ice storm.

Still, I’ve always thought the physical stress of clearing his yard — and, maybe, the mental stress of feeling like he had to tackle the job — contributed to the timing of his death.

I work for a power company now. But even after all these years, I never really think about the potential impact of an approaching ice storm in terms of poles and wires.

The stakes get much higher than that.

One of the last

One of the last pictures ever taken of my grandfather, possibly the last. Yup, that’s me on the left, and a glimpse of stacked-up tree limbs on the right. March 1991. Tough month, that one.

# # # # #

An ice storm of similar legendary status hit southwestern Connecticut not long before Christmas 1973. (I’ve blogged about that one before.)

Like the Rochester ice storm of ’91, the Connecticut ice storm of ’73 knocked out power for days and left countless fallen tree branches in its wake.

And it caught my other grandpa, the keeper of the calendars, in a physically fragile state.

He’d had a heart attack in May 1971. Of course, he’d had some time to recuperate by the time the ice storm hit, two-and-a-half years later.

But he was still committed to a less stressful, lower-key lifestyle, which meant less yard work. (Family pictures from the mid-’70s show a couple of pre-teen girls — neighbors, presumably — raking his leaves for him.)

Once the ice melted, he might have nipped out into his yard here and there to move some branches around. I’m sure he didn’t just sit on his hands and look at them.

But this week’s calendar entry suggests he had the presence of mind to stay patient and let other people do the heavy lifting for him.

December 28, 1973.

December 28, 1973. “Joe” is my Uncle Steve — Aunt Elaine’s husband — who usually goes by his middle name, at least when my branch of the family’s around.

Looking back at it now, the work my dad and uncle put in on that unseasonably warm day might have made the difference between my knowing my grandpa and not knowing him. (I was five months old at the time.)

I try to avoid dramatizing the stuff I write about; I don’t care much for drama, and I try not to pump my narratives full of hot air. But the family record suggests that ice storms and heart problems don’t mix well.

I’m glad my paternal grandpa didn’t take the chance, and that my dad and uncle relieved him of post-storm hard work. If they hadn’t, a lot of things might have been missing from my life — and this blog is the very least of them.

If my dad and uncle are reading, you guys have my permission to have an extra beer tonight, or whatever your chosen treat is. You earned it, a long time ago.

And if you ever find yourselves with a yard full of icy tree limbs, you know how to reach me.

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