We said our goodbyes to Grandpa in proper fashion, complete with taps and a 21-gun salute to honor his time in the Navy. The service was in a beautiful setting; out in the hills of southeastern Greene County, in a tiny little cemetery bounded by what could only be described as a meadow. There were even butterflies, dozens of little yellow butterflies flying about. It was bright, and quiet, and peaceful, the way a peaceful rest should be. My dad's father was 89, and he had earned a peaceful rest.
After the service, we repaired to the home of Grandpa and Grandma's fifth son, the Uncle Who Made Good. Downstairs, a pool game broke out; upstairs, 20 or 30 family members, many of whom I actually knew, were eating, talking, occasionally shrieking with laughter, and generally enjoying each other's company. This is a very, very good thing. Frankly, it's hard not to enjoy yourself around this group of people, no matter the circumstances.
"Diverse" doesn't even begin to describe the family into which I was born. My dad was one of eight children (the oldest died very young, several years before my dad was born.) Six boys, two girls. Seven of those eight produced 20 grandchildren. Ironically, the first-born of my generation also died young. Born in 1964, he died in his late 20s of cancer.
Among the remaining 19 are a doctor, a TV reporter turned marketing guy for a worldwide poker outfit, the journalist-turned-software-guy, a banker, a receptionist turned mortgage processor, at least three high school dropouts, a vice president of a renowned national museum (thanks to the wonders of Google, I just discovered this fact a few minutes ago; more on that later), a couple of good ol' boys, and a few who are still struggling to find their places in life. One of them actually has no biological connection to the rest of us (yeah, we'll come back to that one, too.)
All of us have a talent of some sort that sets us apart from the rest of the world:
Pretty much any of the boys can pick a guitar. All of us, with the possible exception of my sister, are comfortable speaking in front of large groups of people. I guess we came by that naturally.
And I can say this with little fear of contradiction:
I haven't talked to the ZZ Top-bearded cousins or the mortgage processor cousin or the high school dropouts more than maybe five times in the last 15 years. We're not people who would associate with each other if we weren't related. But: If I called one of those people in need of something, they'd do whatever they could to help. As I would for them.
That undeniable bond is what Grandma and Grandpa left behind. That's a success that can't be measured in dollars or square feet or any other of the empty units of measure to which we too often attempt to ascribe importance.
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A couple of mentions above begged further explanation. I'll try to explain here.
My two oldest living uncles are, shall we say, men of mystery. Each has been married several times; one of them, well, a few more than several.
This particular uncle, T, is not somebody who has lived life by the book, unless that book was written by somebody like Hunter S. Thompson. He is emphatically not a role model. Where there is family controversy, T is at the center.
Uncle T is 63. He is currently on (we think) his eighth marriage, to a woman who is younger than me. About a year ago, she gave birth to a child. Said child is credited as Grandchild No. 20, despite the fact that he very, very obviously is not biologically related to us. None of us tans like that, nor is any of us capable of growing an afro, and amidst all the diversity of my cousins, one common thread is blue eyes. But, the conventional wisdom goes, she had the kid while she was married to one of us, so he's one of us too.
Among this black-sheep uncle's other children is M ... who is the aforementioned VP of the renowned national museum.
I don't know her; she grew up with her mom in a town 100 miles west of Anytown. She's three years younger than me. Grandma sent her Christmas gifts every year, and occasionally received pictures from M's mom. (As I pointed out in my tribute to my grandmother, one of the most striking aspects of her funeral service was the number of her sons' ex-wives who came to pay their respects.)
The last time I thought about M was 17 years ago, when she graduated from high school. Grandma proudly told me that she recorded one of the highest ACT scores in all of Missouri. M is now 35; she lives in a large city on the East Coast under her maiden name, behind which there are many letters. I'm not sure if she's married.
None of my cousins nor I have seen M since probably 1972, if even then, which means she would have been a baby and none of us would be old enough to remember having met her. But if she had been at Grandpa's funeral -- or if she came to Anytown for Christmas -- there'd be a seat for her, and she'd be immediately mobbed by 20 people wanting to hear about her life and asking her opinions and making sure she had plenty of food and drink. Somebody would say, "You're a lot bigger than last time I saw you." One of the ZZ Top Beards would give her a big, vaguely frightening hug and tell her he loves her.
It's an undeniable bond. Fascinating, sometimes infuriating, occasionally a bit unnerving ... but always undeniable. It outlived my grandparents, it will outlive all of us, and it will always be one of my favorite things about being me.
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