When I was young my world was full of powerful men and women. They were giants who could push lawn mowers and build houses, operate motor boats, drive cars, and command large house pets with authority. In high school the first of the giants died. Norman, my grandfather on my mother’s side, succumbed to the rigors of cancer treatment coupled with pneumonia when I was 16. Soon I had lost both of my father’s parents as well. For a time I grew to expect and not to take much interest in the steady passing of those who had lived through the Great Depression and World War II.
They had had their time, and they had lived in a time of greatness. I could not perceive how much the rest of humanity was loosing with the death of each treasured person. On this trip to Yakima, the home of most of my childhood giants, I wanted to visit four specific people. My grandmother Carolyn, of course was the person I most wanted to connect with. I also wanted to see my great-aunt Janice and her husband Uncle Gunther, and my late grandfather’s best friend Wally. Today my grandmother took me around the city to see them all.
My Uncle Gunther may live another day, or another week, or longer. I would not have recognized him if Aunt Janice had not started speaking with him as he sat in the hall of his care facility, staring blankly in the direction of the reception desk. I took some time to try a conversation, but that was not possible. His ability to speak coherently has been lost. I rested my hand on his chest. I wanted to feel him, to feel his life, to feel the rising and falling of his ribs and sternum. As he breathed, it was like every expanding of his lungs was a beautiful act of defiance. He must know how close he is to death now. We are all closer to death than we have ever before been, his awareness is simply more acute.
Janice seemed better. She is feisty, has always been a bit rebellious and independent. If someone at Thanksgiving dinner was going to get into an argument with someone else, chances are it would be Jan. She carries an irreverent joy in her eyes and in her smile; the kind of person who hears someone tell her she can’t and thinks “I can.” Resilient, sparky, funny, precocious, determined; my great-aunt brings another dimension to every conversation.
Wally and my grandfather breathed life into each other for over four decades. I imagine that they loved each other like David loved Jonathan. Since travelling to Albania I think I have a better understanding of this kind of love. There the men dance together, hold hands while talking, and spend countless hours together at cafes; any time of day and all times of the day men will sit and talk and bond over everything and nothing. Wally gave me my first rifle when I was 15. It is an 1897, German-made, bolt-action, 7mm Mauser which I own to this day.
Maybe someday I’ll give that gun to my best friend’s oldest grandson. Wouldn’t that be something?
albaniacalling 