You say you just don’t see it
He says it’s perfect sense
You just can’t get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talk it in defense.
-Mike and the Mechanics
–>
I was never baptized Catholic, but this doesn’t factor into my young brain’s calculus as I sit in Saint Joseph’s and listen to the confident but aging timbre of Father Dalzell as he delivers his homily. I’m sitting next to my aunt, and throughout the service my hearing unconsciously darts from the priest’s voice at the head of the church to my aunt’s ritualized responses as she holds her Missal in faithful reverence. Even though I don’t fully realize it at the time, I really love these Sunday mornings in Woods Hole.
I’m not sure how long I accompanied my aunt to Sunday Mass, but I know that on this particular day I am nine years old. I say this with certainty because I remember at the close of the concluding rite, Father Dalzell adds “And may the best team win”- a nod demonstrating his awareness that today is a big day for the New England Patriots and his football-loving parishioners. What happened a few hours later on the gridiron is of little consequence to my story.
Sunday mornings with my aunt did not end with our weekly dose of God. Every trip to church was always punctuated by her treating us kids to brunch in the dimly lit confines of Bobby Byrne’s Pub in Mashpee. As she ordered up her Bloody Mary and I traded the cherries in my Shirley Temple for her celery stick, I’d always get a couple of quarters that would be fed straight into the jukebox for some post- pipe organ acoustics. To this day I can never hear my old standard, Madonna’s “Lucky Star”, without visualizing the model of Budweiser Clydesdales and carriage that was mounted up on the wall by our usual table.
Leaving Bobby Byrne’s was always a bit of an experience as well. If any of you are familiar with the old layout, the double layer of doorways would invariably swing open and spit patrons into a blinding sunshine that would rouse you from your sedating and grease-laden repast. It’s as if you are suddenly given the gift of sight, and the experience is almost too much for your senses to process. It always took some time to get re-acclimated to the natural environment.
My aunt with the children she helped raise, now with children of our own.
Why do I recount these curling scraps of memory from my childhood? It’s probably obvious. Two days ago I came across a heart stopping message courtesy of social media. By piecing together two seemingly incongruous status updates posted by family members, I suddenly realized that my aunt- this same one I have just told you about- was currently in surgery after a cancer diagnosis.
Wait, what? Did I miss something?
My first reaction to the news was of concern- but I also felt unspeakably angry that a God and Country social media outlet was the first place that I’d heard of a loved one’s illness. Someone vey close, living just down the street.
What the Hell is wrong with my family?
Don’t these people known how to communicate?
I stewed for a bit, and then tried to send well wishes from my outpost here in West Africa. The hours ticked by, and the more I thought about the news, the more I realized that I wasn’t so much angry with my family for not telling me- but I was more angry with myself. Really- when was the last time I have even talkedto my aunt- this woman who spent so much time with us as kids and is someone whom I profess to love? I’m embarrassed to tell you all that I don’t even know the answer to this question. Regardless of whether I’m in the Service or living overseas, that realization made me angry and honestly more ashamed than I was willing to admit.
You might think that I’m as bad as my Facebooking family for choosing this blog as a forum to air a bit of family business. Indeed, I hope that my beloved relations do not mind the encroachment- but I firmly believe that this bizarre phenomenon of disjointed family communication is fairly pervasive in the world. I figure that most others out there can empathize.
You can always reach out to home- and if you’re lucky, the old familiar trees will still be there to welcome you back.
You know the adage about only getting together for weddings and funerals? Well as I grow a tiny bit older, I am definitely starting to appreciate the weight of this statement. I don’t want to become one of these people who only tunes in when something is wrong- but I can see that this is a gradual creep that is easily welcomed into our busy lives. Even as I tried to gather information on my Mary’s status, I felt supremely stupid for choosing this moment to reach out. I almost didn’t even want to e-mail my aunt Julie because I felt so ashamed that so much time had passed between talking to either of them. And for no good reason at all. Family interactions, expectations or even a lack thereof can be pretty tricky.
But I have swallowed my pride, and am working on doing a better job at keeping in touch with the people who have molded me into the person who sits here today. I’m talking about my Aunt Maya- whose name is actually Mary but her name was always shortened to “Mare” and on Cape Cod that means it comes out sounding like “May-uh” with the Boston accent. She’s the person who gave me her cassette tape and autographed photograph of Luciano Pavarotti– and those things single-handedly served as the preferred music of my childhood.
Earlier today my iTunes on shuffle mode brought up my favorite song, ‘Nessun Dorma‘, and I smiled as I reflected on the timing of such a random choice amongst my 6,000 music files. Not so random at all.
Nothing is more important than this.
My aunt and the unconditional love that she has given could never be wiped from my memory, and I should probably tell her that I take a physical piece of this reminder with me everywhere where I go. It comes in the form of a brightly colored rosary that was blessed by her priest and given to me the last time I saw Maya. In truth it is one of my most treasured possessions.
Isn’t it funny how we all just assume that everyone around us- especially our loved ones- knows exactly how we must be feeling or what we are thinking? This never exactly turns out to be the case though, does it? So with all of this said, here’s to our aunts and uncles, family and close friends who have always been there for us- and who we don’t always get the chance to let know that they are appreciated.
