A Death in the Family

Sometimes death simply seems incongruous here.

I felt that way Saturday morning as I went to bury my father’s last surviving brother.

Saturday was one of those impossibly beautiful Southern California days – the overcast typical of this time of year failed to materialize and the sky was a brilliant blue. And, while the day was warm, it was hardly oppressive.

The seeming incongruity hit me as I spied the black hearse in front of the handsome church with the sparkling tower and dome in a very pleasant Manhattan Beach neighborhood. It hit me again after Mass, as the funeral cortege, flanked by motorcycle guards, wound its way through this laid-back beach town and up Pacific Coast Highway before turning inland to the cemetery near Fox Hills. Pedestrians and motorists alike -- most of whom looked like they were headed for the beach -- waited patiently and politely for the long procession to wind its way through.

I suppose I felt the incongruity most strongly at the wake back at my cousin’s home in the South Bay, just a few blocks up from the beach. When my cousin (the third of my uncle's four sons) remodeled his home a few years back, he wisely put the living and dining rooms, as well as an outdoor porch, on the top floor. The view is sweeping. The entire Santa Monica Bay was at our feet as we mourned the way the Irish mourn -- through laughter and celebration.

So, yes, it’s not just the weather, but also a culture transported from a distant place and time that makes me view death as an intruder, to be treated brusquely. Certainly, my uncle, while a very dignified man, was not one to behave morosely at a wake, and would be aghast at the thought that anyone should do so at his.

His grandfather – my great-grandfather – came to Los Angeles in 1881, but was born and spent his early life in a small town in Ulster, on the cold and rocky shores of the Irish Sea. Something of his Gaelic temperament and ways has evidently survived our family’s long tenure on this semi-arid Pacific plain.

My uncle died several months shy of his eighty-fourth birthday. He had a long and eventful life. As one of his eulogists mentioned, he was a member of what has often been called the “Greatest Generation” – having served in the Army Air Corps in World War II. He was a member of a bomber crew and flew many missions over Germany. It is known in the family that he had many harrowing experiences, but rarely talked about that time in his life in the years that followed.

He survived, came home to his wife, had five children – all of whom survive him and gave him reason to be proud of them. There are nine grandchildren and – as I learned for the first time Saturday – a great-grandchild on the way.

His considerable impact on my life came late in his, and was particularly connected with my own father’s long illness and death six years ago. Throughout, my uncle was a true stalwart, unstinting in the emotional support he provided to my father and my mother, as well as to me and all my brothers and sisters.

He and I were also connected by a mutual appreciation for irony. He had a fine wit. A conversation with him was always a pleasant and warmhearted joust. I miss that already.

As one of the eulogists at my father’s funeral six years ago, my uncle told a funny and self-deprecating story about how my father had helped his youngest brother after an early experience of the joys of the bottle left him sick and retching miserably. My father cleaned up after him, comforted him and told no one about it. The incident stayed with my uncle for a lifetime.

Saturday, I stood in the sunshine on the porch with my uncle’s second son – a priest who had eulogized his father with surpassing eloquence earlier that morning – and relayed a little anecdote. One of my father’s worst health crises in the last years of his life involved a dangerous surgery that lasted the better part of a day. My uncle came early and sat with us in the waiting room the whole time. He could sense the strain we were all under. He turned on the wit and had us in stitches very quickly. The conviviality turned hours into minutes, and we were already in good spirits by the time we received the news that the operation was finished and that our father had come through it very well.

My father was the oldest of five children. Now, only one – my father’s youngest sister – survives.

We found an early photograph of all five siblings over the weekend – my father, my uncle, another brother and their two sisters. My father looks to be about 12, so I suspect the picture was taken shortly after their mother, my grandmother, died at the age of 36 from tuberculosis. They all have a slightly lost look, rather sad and seemingly full of wondering at what the future would hold for them.

There were other tragedies and suffering, some of which I know of and others about which I will never have any inkling. But there were also quiet triumphs. All five married and the marriages lasted – there were no divorces. There were a remarkable 27 children, most of whom were present Saturday, along with a large contingent of grandchildren. They survived depression and war, raised their children in challenging times, and (for better or worse) hewed with great loyalty to the Catholic faith of their ancestors. For the most part, they bore the ravages of age with courage and grace.

They continue to hearten me. As I stood in my cousin’s living room Saturday afternoon, with the impossibly beautiful sunlight streaming in from the beaches and the Bay, watching family and friends so warmly engaged, watching the children play, I thought of my uncle and how the good we do persists.

That is a truth that provides some comfort to even a skeptic like me.