Memorial Day

I once had a great uncle. When I was a boy, he was my favorite uncle. I called him Unk. Unk was a retired New York City policeman. He was short, beefy and bald with short stubby fingers and although my mother liked him, she thought he was “course” as people once called those with rough edges.

A bachelor, Unk had a girl friend, Margaret. She worked at Western Union. They dated, including occasionally going to bars to have drinks.  Unk lived with his two pious Methodist sisters who, with icy resignation, barely tolerated his ways- the drinking but also that Margaret was both Irish and Catholic.  Margaret never made any appearances at family occasions.

To this day I have his billy club. It has no nicks or dents.  Unk, a diamond in the rough, had a good heart and my guess is, he never used the club in earnest.

I think of him often, especially around Memorial Day. He assumed the care of the family gravesite. It was small, located at the old Moravian Cemetery on Staten Island. The plot sat in a stand of lovely old beech trees. Among great aunts and uncles, my parents are buried there.

On occasion he’d take me with him to care for the site. It was a ritual of remembering I enjoyed. He’d mow the small patch of grass, meticulously trim around the headstones and have me weed at the edges of the plot. He’d plant flowers, water them while standing in silent reflection, and then, before leaving, light up one of his Old Gold cigarettes, which signaled to me that the ritual was over.  I recognized the tender caring in this ritual of remembering that bespoke gentleness in him that I treasured. I wondered when after he died who’d look after the site.

On Memorial Day here on the Shore, between cookouts, there will be occasions of remembering at gravesites.  We will remember those who gave their lives in service to their country. Acts of remembrance have significant spiritual power. They are often regarded as activities kindred to praying. To remember someone  in mourning is to communicate to them comfort and offer them strength. To hold someone deceased in our thoughts is to honor their memory and in a mystical sort of way, to invite them out of the past to join us in the present. It’s a gesture of thanksgiving for their lives. I’m particularly fond of how Quakers put this; to pray or to carry someone in remembrance is to “hold them in the light.”

Calling to mind those friends’ and relatives who have predeceased us is in part to acknowledge the role they played in making us the persons we are today.

In my studio, in the corner, I can see Unk’s billy club leaning against the wall. The club is dark mahogany, smooth and shiny as if brand new. As I look at this instrument of control, ironically, I think, not of its potential for violence, but recall the spirit of gentleness that Unk left to me as his legacy. It’s worth remembering.

Mothers Day 2014

I think of my mother on Mother’s Day. She’s long gone but her effects on me were profound. Although we fought often during my adolescence, I realize now I’m more like her than I once thought.  Our minds’ worked similarly. We had trouble being specific.

As a boy I depended on her for everything. She was a single Mom. During adolescence- all bets were off.  I listened to nothing she said. I had an attitude of disturbing proportions.  In mid-life, I began thinking of her and saw her differently. It was the little things about her, not the big ones I’d recall mostly. I suspect that the greater things are contained in the smaller one’s, anyway.

I grew up in the late 1930’ and 40’s.  Then childhood sicknesses and injuries were treated primitively.  Only crises sent folks to doctors. Mothers served as both doctor and nurse.

             

I grew up in the era of castor oil, cod liver oil, mustard plasters, iodine and alcohol for cuts and scrapes. Consuming raw liver was popular for treating anemia as was downing raw eggs for increasing energy. Dr. Poulten removed a cyst from my ear with no anesthesia and dentists filled my teeth the same way.  Enemas were popular for treating most GI disturbances.  Sickness kept you from school although its costs often outweighed benefits.

Mother was comforting but occasionally administered frightening treatments. During mumps, she slathered a greasy salve on my swollen glands.  It was black, smelled like insecticide with the consistency of axel grease. I felt like a crankshaft.

           

However, my mother read me books when I was sick. I liked that. That’s when I first began to love stories. I still hear her voice in those stories.

Mother’s explanation for any treatment intervention was formulaic. Why did I have to take castor oil, or be slathered with salve? She would only reply – “it’s good for what ails you.”

 Had she said, “doctor’s orders”, truth is I would have found that explanation less credible than her statement “it’s good for what ails you.” Her comment spoken confidently, although nebulous, assured me that all ills originated from a single cause so that any treatment she administered with an “it’s good for what ails you” seemed proper. For mother’s home remedies, one size fit all.  Her’s made me feel safe. Predictability is comforting.

My mother was a skillful cook. My wife once asked her how she made broccoli soup. "Oh, a little bit of seasoning, some butter, a dash of cream" and on she'd go. She was fudging, guarding her recipe, I thought.  I see it differently now. Mothers are, above all, intuitive. They may not be able to articulate just how they handle things but to most challenges they intuit successful solutions.  No recipes, diagnostic manuals or psychology degrees are required: for Mom, it’s all about winging it. What she did carried the day. Explanations remained vague.

Mother’s out there on the Shore: I wish you at least one phone call, tweet, email, flowers or dinner on Mother’s day from your kids. For mom’s long gone, sons and daughters, send them thoughts of loving-kindness.

Looking for Signs

On the Eastern Shore, some people give names to their homes, as aristocrats once did in colonial days. The name is a part of the owner’s story. I noticed these signs one day while riding a bike along the Bozman-Neavitt Rd near St. Michaels. The names appear on signs in the front yard or by the mailbox. I believe the signs are a resident’s statement to the world about his personal sense of place.

The homes are modest and well kept. While names on some signs seem apt, others are cryptic.

Simple geography may determine names like Pond Point, Winterbottom Point, or Breezy Point, for example. I saw one sign, Swan Pointe. An  ‘e’ was added to the end of the word point. A suggestion of antiquity, perhaps, or was it a touch of class, like the ‘ou’ I may see in the word Harbour.  One homestead is called Daddy’s Folly Farm. Did the kids think Daddy was crazy to buy the place? In either case, Daddy got his way.  Another name, Up the Creek could have been inspired by its location but may also suggest a property mortgage that turned out to be a killer? One can only guess.

Some homes declare they are farms. They are not.  Calling your place a ‘farm’ evokes a romantic sense of place rather than identifying a function.  On one spread, Saddlers Cove Farm, for instance, a house stood and a small airport with a nearby hanger, it’s windsock streaming in the breeze. Better those owners are fibbing about farm rather than to have bought the farm.

Consistent with the rural ambience along the Bozman-Neavitt Road is a sign that reads Grandview. It’s located, as though divinely appointed, next to a cemetery. One day I saw an elderly man on a riding mower. The mower was stopped, engine off, parked just before a gravestone around which new flowers grew. The man sat there, still, eyes fixed on the stone and he appeared as though he were deep in thought. I was certain that he was visiting with someone he loved who had been interred not too long ago. He misses them. He dropped by to tell them so.

One sign read, Hidden Pleasure. It piqued my curiosity. I slowed down while looking carefully up the driveway to see more. There was nothing visible but trees.  What did these folks like doing, I wondered?  The sign also pictured a goose. But seeing no other hints, I moved on, still wondering.  Riding past Plenary, I felt chastened.   I recalled the phrase, ‘plenary indulgence,’ from my childhood catechism.  A plenary indulgence remits in full all the temporal punishments that one has incurred for their sins. Whether that’s to include thoughts as well as deeds, I’m not sure.

We’ve named our home. When we first looked at the house it was not love at first sight.  The house looked weird, like a bunkhouse. We dismissed the thought of buying it but then returned once more just for a second look. It still looked weird but we fell in love with it anyway and bought it.

Our sign out front reads, “Second Look.” That tells our story.