My father, Frank, is 84 years old and he never calls me, at least on his own accord. We usually chat when I’m talking to my mother and he’s moseying around in the background of the conversation. He has a cell phone (old flip phone), but usually leaves it at my folks’ farmhouse whenever he ventures out. It’s always charging silently and unused next to his recliner in the back den.
The only time Frank ever calls me is if there’s something urgent or he has bad news about a relative or someone close to our family who has passed away back home in my native North Country of Upstate New York. Well, he called me the other day, my smart phone vibrating loudly, the name “Frank” on the incoming call. A momentary chill shot up and down my entire body.
“Garret, I have some bad news. Your Aunt Moe died today. Your mother told me to call you and tell you. She’s up at Moe and Chuck’s house right now helping out with what needs to be done,” my dad’s voice echoed from my speakerphone. My aunt has been battling muscular dystrophy for several years. She was only 64. At that moment, I was standing on my front porch and gazing out at the traffic on nearby Walnut Street in downtown Waynesville.
In that fleeting space of hearing the news and processing it, memories flooded my field of vision. My Aunt Moe. Watching her cook all those delicious meals alongside my late grandmother during the holidays when I was a kid or grilling out with her world-famous “beercan chicken” at our family’s former summer camp on Lake Champlain. There was her laugh, too, this kind of snort and cackle that, when triggered, would spur anyone within earshot to also giggle unison. And her deep love of music and film. She was something else.
Soon, the family group message on Facebook began to light up. Message after message from other aunts, uncles, cousins and so on. This constant stream of remembrance, personal stories and tall tales galore. Everyone giving condolences to my Uncle Chuck, who’s also in the group message. Then, came a slew of photos everyone started sharing of Moe, as a young kid with her whole life ahead of her all the way through early adulthood and her later years.
There were lots of images of Moe and Chuck’s wedding. It was held on Sept. 17, 1988, at the Anchorage Inn on Lake Champlain in my hometown of Rouses Point, New York. The establishment burned down in 2007. All that’s left is an empty lot on Lake Street where the town used to congregate on weekends and for special occasions. The wedding photos were filled with ear-to-ear smiles on their faces, their horizon bright and unknown. The coming years brought them two daughters, Carleigh and Molly, these two cousins of mine that I’ve known most of my life. And we’ve stayed close over the years, thankfully.
Thus, my family will soon be coming together for Moe’s memorial service later this month in Rouses Point. Relatives from around the community and across the country. Her ashes will be buried next to my grandparents in the same cemetery plot where my late cousin, Nate, is buried, and just within vicinity from other beloved faces I once knew in real time when they walked this earthly plane: old friends, former teachers, and local old-timers, etc.
And, like clockwork, there will be a post-service gathering right down the road at American Legion Post 912 on Pratt Street. There will surely be plenty of Labatt Blue Light available, with drinks held high and in unison as we celebrate and remember Aunt Moe. Everyone will be dressed up and tears will be shed as we share our own interactions with her over the course of her life. But, we’ll be together, at least in that moment, which is what matters most.
Currently, I’m sitting at my writing desk in my humble abode, just thinking about this past year as the summer winds down and slowly transitions to fall. I lost my best friend (Ben) earlier this spring, and now my aunt this summer. I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my years. A lot. So many damn funerals, so many taken far too early. The other day, a dear friend turned to me and said, “I don’t know anyone who has lost more friends and family members than you.”
Truth. A hard pill to swallow by any measure. But, for me? I think that’s because I’ve been lucky enough to genuinely get to know so many vibrant and inspiring human beings in this wandering, pondering existence. So, this is the cosmic cost (I guess?) of knowing all these incredible figures in this (our) universe. It never gets easier. And the weight of their memories will never be something too heavy for me to carry. I don’t care, I’ll manage, you know?
Ben and Moe. Those two really opened up a lot of deep feelings of not only them, but everyone else who is now long gone. They are these dusty memories on the shelves of my mind, utterly cherished and tightly held. Sadly, the memories get fuzzier around the edges with each passing year, where their familiar voices and laughter, their warm smile and their true self are things I try so hard to remember, to sincerely and truthfully keep close to my chest.
As I venture back above the Mason-Dixon Line for the memorial service, my heart is very heavy, my mind restless and haywire. I struggle with making sense of things as I continue into my daily life and duties and things I need and have to do to survive in my own corner of the world. Regardless, I find such solace and personal resolve in knowing how unique and splendid these kind souls were, and remain in my heart of hearts. I remain. And so do you, too.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.