There was a family
funeral this past weekend. Here I am
left in a funk on a Sunday night, not because I have lost someone, but because
of the sad legacy the deceased left in his wake.
I do not miss my uncle;
he was not a special person to me in any way, which is not a big deal. We
can’t be close to all our extended family.
Auntie misses him a lot because
she had a special relationship with him.
I’m not sure who else felt much loss at his passing though.
When someone at the
funeral told me she was sorry for my loss I was speechless. I did not lose anything.
What struck me was that,
as I approached my cousins to express I was sorry for their loss, I realized
the words rang hollow to them as well. They
were not feeling loss. Family rumor is
that those kids made a pact when they were quite young to stick together, since
neither one of their parents was going to take care of them.
My uncle’s wife has gone
into memory care. She was a terrible
mother.
They were very
Catholic, my uncle and aunt. They considered themselves
saintly because they stayed miserably married for 58 years. I do not consider such an existence
virtuous. They considered themselves
saintly because they had eight boys. I
do not consider having children and leaving them to fend for themselves
virtuous. Three of the children have
already passed away. One was badly
burned as a toddler when he pulled a boiling pot down onto himself from the
stove. One was disowned by his father because he was gay. One lost part of a foot because
of an accident; the wound was not properly taken care of and gangrene set
in. I believe
they relinquished parental rights for the one with Down's Syndrome at some point which released them of his care and made him a ward of the
state.
Children leave a legacy, but not always a positive one. My uncle felt sorry for Auntie (his baby sister) because she had no children and thus had no purpose in life and no legacy. As I see it, Auntie is leaving a rich legacy and he is the one to pity.
The funeral was sparsely
attended. The priest was an immigrant
from a faraway land. The service was
generic. My Teutonic relatives could not
understand the priest because of his accent and bad acoustics. None of his sons contributed to the service.
This all makes me
reflect on a number of things.
My father died when I
was eight years old. I will confess that
I was jealous of anyone who had a dad.
People complained about their fathers all the time, which I
resented. I wished I had a dad to
complain about. Now, looking back, I can
see that having a father who doesn’t really care can be worse than not having
one. They say that death is the ultimate
form of abandonment to a child, but what about those who are abandoned
physically or emotionally by a parent?
What about those people with parents who are alive but unplugged?
The Girls have applied
for Foster parenting. I have to consider
these things as I approach Foster Grandma status. There is much to contemplate.
Because my father died young he was raised to heavenly levels of goodness after his passing. I don’t remember him much which makes for a
thin legacy. There are no bad deeds or
slights to remember … nothing to humanize him, really … only a few myths and
legends of his goodness, his intelligence and his wit.
As my world broadens, as
my peers begin to lose their parents, I am able to see the variety of legacies people
leave behind.
As I move my way up the
family hierarchy with each passing from my mother’s generation, I am in a position to consider my
own legacy.
Thanks for
listening. Now that I’ve gotten that off
my chest I can face Monday.
