My extended family just lost a peach of a man. My late father's 87-year-old brother, whose birth name was Marcel but who everyone called "Marcy," succumbed to lung cancer on May 17.
He was one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. Although his political tendencies were decidedly to the left of my father and me, he never exhibited one iota of smug condescension or anger, like so many liberals do these days.
We didn't see our cousins, Uncle Marcy or his wife Aunt Dorothy very often, because they moved out to New Jersey when I was in first grade. But one memory that stands out to this day, nearly 40 years later, is the week we spent visiting our cousins, aunt and uncle in South Orange, New Jersey back in late May 1973, when I was 13 and my brother was 10.
My dad's sister, her husband and two of their kids drove to our house from their home in suburban Chicago and spent the night, and the next morning we took off for New Jersey. It's possible to make the drive from central Michigan in one day, but it would be an extremely long day. And with young kids in the station wagon, it would be daunting.
So we spent the night in a central Pennsylvania town and finished the journey the next morning. Coming from the flatlands of central Michigan, traveling through the mountains of Pennsylvania was a real treat. Being in a different region of the country, seeing cousins for the first time, and knowing we would get to visit New York City in a few days were oh, so exciting.
We got out of going to school for four days (Tuesday through Friday after Memorial Day), with our teachers agreeing to assign us homework for the days we would be gone. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was the great people, including my Uncle Marcy and Aunt Dorothy and their children, with whom we spent time.
As a longtime lover of music, I find that certain tunes bring back powerful memories of chapters of my life. I hear a tune and it often reminds me of not just a year, but a season of that year.
"Daniel" by Elton John was a hit in May 1973. So were "You are the Sunshine of my Life" by Stevie Wonder and "My Love," one of Paul McCartney's better ballads. The Canadian group Skylark had its only hit, a ballad called "Wildflower" with a slow, psychedelic guitar solo. And a couple of classic rock instrumentals were all over the airwaves in spring 1973: "Frankenstein" by the Edgar Winter Group, and "Hocus Pocus" by Focus (I believe they were a one-hit wonder group from somewhere in the hinterlands of western Europe).
I can still remember my cousins and I imitating that "Hocus Pocus" chorus: "La-de-da, la-de-da, la-de-da, la-de-da, aaaaaaaaaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah... then jamming on the "air guitar..." And for some reason, we came up with some strange lyrics for "Daniel," incorporating our newly befriended relatives. For "Daniel," we facetiously sang, "I can see Marcy waving goodbye...Oh, I miss Marcy...Oh, I miss him so much..."
My cousins, John and Paul (NO, they didn't have brothers named George and Ringo), had to go to school those four days between Memorial Day and the next weekend. But it was tough for them, because each night when we were supposed to be going to sleep, we would be horsing around, cracking jokes and shooting the bull until....oh, who knows, midnight or 1 a.m.? However late it was, it was too late for 11- and 13-year-olds who have to get up at 7 a.m.
To this day, my brother who will turn 50 in July and I like to imitate one of the older sisters of John and Paul waking them up early in the morning with her New Jersey accent: "Jawn and Pawul, it's seven o'clawak".... And Paul's response: "I'm FRIGGIN' TIRED!"
I guess this was a "you had to be there" type of memory. But it's something my brother and I crack up about to this day. A year from now will be the 40th anniversary. One of the highlights of that trip was walking through Manhattan and heading up to the Empire State Building's open-air 86th floor observatory and the 102nd floor, enclosed observatory, which is pretty small when you get right down to it.
At a young age, I came to appreciate my Uncle Marcy's wry demeanor. He smoked a pipe, and seemed to delight in cracking subtle jokes with his dry sense of humor and gentle digs at others (no malice EVER intended!). We wished our uptight dad were that easy-going. (For what it's worth, we appreciate our dad a LOT more now than we did then.)
Little did I know that 15 years later I would get a job in New Jersey and spend some great weekends with my aunt, uncle and some of my cousins at their beautiful home at Highland Lakes. It was located on a lake in Sussex County near the New York border, a beautiful wooded and mountainous area. New Jersey, despite often enduring harsh and derisive criticism as a toxic waste dump, actaully has plenty of natural beauty and many pleasant cities with awesome architecture and true character.
The years roll on and we're all getting older. My brother and I now have worries we never considered back in 1973. But we also have wonderful memories. When I think of my late Uncle Marcy and his friendly presence, it's memories of loved ones, the Allegheny Mountains of Pennsylvania, great tunes on the radio, the tree-lined streets and Victorian homes of South Orange, NJ, and the bustling streets of Manhattan.
Memories are like a person's life: varied, multi-faceted, both good and bad, rich and vibrant. I am convinced that replaying and indulging in those memories is part of the process of accepting the death of a loved one.
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