“Is he the one who always wore overalls?” My daughter asked.
We just told her my cousin Gus died. Part of our daily update; what news of the family? Despite my sorrow, I was amused she remembered that about him. It’s true.
“Yes. He’s that one.” I answered.
I didn’t elaborate that despite his dress, Gus was a hero. He saved my life once. I was 10 years old and Gus was 15. I was drowning in a pond that was one inch deeper than I was tall, with a foot of sticky, quick-sand-like gunk at the bottom. It was a Fourth of July picnic. Gus and other cousins were ashore doing damage with gunpowder. Alarmed by my screams, Gus and his brother Dave, both strong swimmers, dove to my rescue. Gus got there first.
“That’s sad.” My daughter said. “So many of my friends are losing parents now. It happens so often.”
She seemed more thoughtful than sad. She didn’t know Gus like she knows her own cousins and friends. Most of us don’t really know our parents’ cousins. Too much separation. So when cousins pass, it doesn’t affect our children’s lives. They have no real memories or associations, so no anguish, other than feeling bad that their parents might feel bad. It’s natural dilution of grief. Maybe a gift.
“That’s natural,” I observed. “You’re in your mid-thirties.”
I didn’t ponder out loud on how you gain and lose a lot of connections in early adulthood. People move away. Jobs and children point your society differently. Reunions have fewer comers. Picnics favor different groups.
People die.
When I was in my early 30’s, I probably hadn’t seen Gus in ten years. Finding myself alone on a summer Saturday, I walked to a motorcycle rally; “Sturgis in the Village.” I bought a beer and wandered the show. Somebody shoved me from behind. I turned, prepared for a confrontation. Somehow, the face in front of me was familiar. Tough, but with kind eyes. Not aggressive. I was ten seconds into unrecognition when Gus said, “Give it a minute. It’ll come to you!” He was there with his brother Dave, again. Great reunion! I offered to buy them a beer. Unexpectedly, neither wanted a drink. They’d grown up.
“It still makes me sad,” she said.
I know what she means. I didn’t say how personally, or how often, I think about this. What is the realistic outlook for a 65-year-old with a heart condition? I pray that my time is not soon. But I don’t know. I wouldn’t have guessed that Gus’s time was last Tuesday.
When I was 17, our collective family lost a common cousin to a farm accident. Since then, I’ve lost six or seven more, as well as my father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a brother. I never get used to it. It seems there is less and less of me by each new absence, and I think that may be true. Every loss is a connection gone; an intimate memory now unshared. As the losses accumulate, we become smaller in the world. Less consequential.
And then I feel selfish. It shouldn’t be about me!
But I want to live to see her flourish. I want to see my grandchildren grow. I want them to remember me the way I remember my grandparents, and the way my daughter remembers hers.
Is that selfish?
Yes. It is. Their experiences and memories are theirs, not mine to script. What will happen will happen, or not, whether I’m here, or not. It will be OK.
“It makes me sad, too, Sweetie. We all grew up together. I’m going to miss him,” I said.
Gus was one of eight boys in a chopped-up mess of a family. In 1954 my Uncle Tom, Dad’s brother, married my Aunt Fran after his first wife passed away. Once divorced and once widowed, Aunt Fran brought four children with her, two from each husband. Uncle Tom brought two of his own. Then, they had two together. All eight lived together. Nineteen years separated the oldest from the youngest. They adopted sibling bonds that survive today.
Our generation of cousins grew up close in a rural community. Our older cousins, Gus being next, were epic in our young minds. I often joke that Gus saved my life many times. He was my protector against my older brother, John, who didn’t like me much as a child. We laugh about that now. “No, John, you can’t kill Joel until your parents get home,” Gus would say, and lay on John, restraining him. Once restrained, I teased John mercilessly with the miserable behaviors that annoyed him so much to begin with. Saved by Gus, until our parents got home…
“What about your breakfasts?” My daughter asked.
Gus inherited the role as host of our weekly SOB (Sons of Brothers) breakfast. I attend these only sporadically. Proudly sporting his “Let’s Go Brandon” hat and his trademark overalls, Gus presided. He always paid unless one of us beat him to it. He was doted on by the servers who kept us in coffee long after breakfast dishes were cleared. We took care of them.
These intergenerational breakfasts started probably thirty years ago. Dad had breakfast with his nephew Tom, Gus’s older brother, on Thursday morning. Their spot was Clark’s in Buffalo, Iowa, so they included Gage, the local sheriff. If you know my family, your speculations on why this was a good idea are probably accurate. As the younger generation aged, the table grew. It moved from Clark’s to Harlon’s in Davenport for more room. Tony, Terry, David, John, and I joined as we were able. Then from Harlon’s to Hickory Garden where we rated a back room for the minimum eight or ten expected. Cousins from away would join when in town. Friends Jerry and Doug were regulars. On occasion, spouses or children would join.
Dad passed. Gage’s interest waned. Tom and Tony became more homebound. It moved from Hickory Garden to Tastees in Eldridge; a smaller place. Attendance dwindled. Terry got sick and stopped coming; then passed. I last attended several weeks ago. Gus, Doug, and Jerry were there. Dave had a doctor’s appointment. A mere remnant of the SOB’s I remember.
“We’ll see, I suppose,” I said. “It’s just breakfast.”
But it wasn’t just breakfast. It was connection, common sense, wisdom, civility, good faith, shared happiness, shared grief, shared history… I could go on. It was all of that. It was everything that keeps families and communities intact and interested in each other.
Gus’s obituary was too brief. It doesn’t describe that Gus was a haven, how his stepchildren and grandchildren adopted him as their patriarch, how he provided for them, how he rescued people. It doesn’t describe his innate intelligence, how much he read, or his near photographic memory. It doesn’t highlight his past as a brutal anti-bully.
Gus wouldn’t have cared about any of that. He knows that we know. We had breakfast.
He would care that we were comfortable wearing overalls to his celebration of life.
Sorry for your loss Joel. Wonderful tribute. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Sir for sharing.
May you and your family be comforted over the loss of your cousin, Gus.
Like Gus, I look forward to being a patriarch to my grandchildren. One can tell from all you shared he had influence in your extended family.