In Memoriam

CLASS

I was an annoying kid.  Many would say I’m still annoying but have just matured in my methods of being annoying.  Probably true, but when I was a kid of about 2 or 3 years old I was particularly good at it in a “someone shut that kid up” sort of way.  One of my favorite parlor tricks was to repeat what people would say about me to the entire room. One of the great aunts in the house would look at me and say “aren’t you the best little boy!” and I would take that on board, go to the middle of where everyone was sitting and announce loudly  “I’M THE BEST LITTLE BOY”.  Didn’t matter what was said, I’d let everyone know.  “You have the bluest eyes” – “I HAVE THE BLUEST EYES”; “you’re a strong little fella” “I’M A STRONG LITTLE FELLA” – you get the picture.

My Uncle Frank had what might charitably be called a “mischievous” side.  He scoped this habit out and called me over to him one day.  Getting me up close so no one else could hear he whispered something to me knowing full well that whatever he said would be broadcast to the entire house in short order.  Sure enough I was soon in the middle of the floor letting people know all about the latest compliment I had been paid. There I was, proudly proclaiming:

“I’M NOT STUPID, I’M JUST A LITTLE SLOW”.

It brought the house down and, thinking I’d hit on something profound (I had), I spent the rest of the day repeating it. It became a family legend. So in reading the rest of this please keep one thing in mind.

I’m not stupid, I’m just a little slow.

That same Uncle Frank, who was only about 13 or 14 years old when I was born, went on to graduate from high school (a story in and of itself) and join the service, where he was stationed in and around Vietnam during the war, at the same time that my other Uncle, Chuck, was there as well.  (This too is another story – there are lots of stories when it comes to the Higgins side of the family, lots).  This leads to the next thing I want to talk about.  Yes, this is all leading somewhere – trust me, and remember – I’m just a little slow.

Anyway, one day when I was about 8 years old there was a neighbourhood picnic where the whole street had arranged to use a nearby park to have a barbeque and organize games for the kids, etc.  It was a hot summer’s day and I had just sat down at the table across from my mother preparing to tuck in to a burger when she suddenly jumped up and started running across the field, arms waving.  There was a strange man over there, silhouetted against the sky, and I thought he was maybe trying to steal some of the baseball gloves that had been lying on the ground.  I trailed after her, and watched as she wrapped the man in a bear hug.  I wandered up, perplexed as to what was going on.  I looked at the man – who looked a bit familiar – and finally copped on when she said “It’s Frank”. Again, and I can’t emphasize this enough – just a little slow.

I don’t remember if I also wrapped him up in a hug that day but I damn well should have.  Anyone coming back after having served deserved that type of welcome.  Frank was indeed back and, while looking older, he still had the same sense of humor and trouble, could still make my grandmother laugh and shout at him at the same time, could still raise a bit of hell when called for. 

He also managed to get himself a girlfriend and, through a variety of circumstance and fate two things rapidly became apparent.  First, my uncle had landed himself a bit of a babe and second, she fit in to the family about as well as it is humanly possible to do.

Let me take a moment to dwell on point number two.  This was not as easy a task as it might sound.  Now, there was never any question about being welcomed into the family – the clan is and was very much an “any friend of yours is a friend of mine” type of group.  The problem was, especially back then, surviving the welcome.  The Higgins family in and around the Berkshires was a very – how to put this – “energetic” collection.  On any given weekend back in the early ‘70’s you might find yourself:

a. taking part in a wedding where the larger part of the guest list ended up being arrested for overly enthusiastic celebration and placed in a jail cell where they promptly invented the game of “musical toilets”;

b. engaging in a decade long summer picnic at a location known simply as “The Land”, where all the adults and about 20,000 children slept in an old army surplus tent or their cars until rolling out of bed to start over the next morning. (By the way – note to Cleveland, congratulations on the championship, but you are not “The Land”. “The Land” is “The Land”, and “The Land” is in Hancock Massachusetts.  You are Cleveland and you are in Ohio.  Again, all the best on winning a championship, but this is not up for discussion);

c. featured in the local newspaper for supplying three-quarters of the entrants in a “beer-drinking” contest (hey – why not? – they gave out free beer if you entered), which was followed by a softball game where new meaning was given to the phrase “asleep in left field”.

And that’s just three random examples.  If I felt like sitting here and writing for the next three weeks I could maybe get through about half of the rest of the stories.  The point is – if you jumped into this group and survived – you were doing well.  If you enjoyed it – you were noteworthy or perhaps a bit crazy – possibly both.  But if you managed to master it – you were exceptional.

And that is where I really start to talk about the subject of this essay, my Aunt Linda.  (Bears repeating – a little slow, a little slow).

For my uncle, in what all would agree was one of his better moves, did in fact marry the girlfriend who had fit in so well with the group, and she had become an aunt in a seamless and (seemingly) effortless manner.  Linda may have been someone who came to the family from the outside – but it never felt that way.  Instead she seemed like she had always been there – someone who was equally at home hosting the Thanksgiving Day meal, pitching horseshoes with (and beating) all the men at various gatherings, or gliding across the dance floor whenever there was some kind of formal celebration, like a wedding. 

There is a subtle combination of grace and toughness, beauty and perseverance, elegance and grit, simplicity and sophistication that when mixed together creates a certain type of person.  Because it seems rare to find this we often project those qualities onto distant celebrities – who may or may not have the actual combination in their makeup – but we like to think they do. So we say “Jackie Kennedy” or “Grace Kelly” and automatically know what kind of image we are attempting to invoke.  The word most often used, is “class” – as in “that person has class”.  For a long time that’s what I thought – that you had to look to public figures to find representations of class.  After watching the example of my aunt (amongst others) it gradually dawned on me that there was class to be found in people much closer to home.  It took a while for this to register – again – not stupid, just a little…well, you know.  Nonetheless it was impossible even for me to miss.  In the laughter, thoughtfulness, inclusiveness and respect she engendered my aunt was obviously one very classy lady. 

Was.  That word hurts.  When someone becomes part of the family so quickly that you feel they’ve always been there the danger is that you begin to think they always will be there.  Reality can then provide a rude slap in the face.   When Linda became ill, not very long ago, it didn’t seem possible that she wouldn’t beat this.  When things took a very severe turn my reaction was much like my wife’s, who recently wrote my sister to say, “I can't believe this is happening. Poor Linda who was so nice to everyone...” But it was happening, and then this morning came word that Linda had passed away.  So the word is now “was”, and things switch to the past tense.  I feel so much for my uncle and my cousins.  I think I have a grasp on how much we’ve lost, for it is a shared loss, but there are some who carry more of the burden.  I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better – and being so far away doesn’t help.  Right now I feel both slow and stupid.

I’m often asked “do you miss the States?” and the answer is complicated.  The world is smaller, and I don’t miss the day to day things, because we all have daily lives and ways to fill the time.  If you can’t find a way to do that – then you aren’t doing it right.  But I do miss events – weddings, graduations, and, as strange as it sounds, funerals.  I’m going to miss this one and even though I’ll be back in a couple of weeks I’m not happy about it. 

There is a sense of comfort to be had in the gathering of mourners because there is the reminder that this is more than a remembrance – it is also a statement of hope.  Hope that the spirit of the person we are all missing endures – in all of our thoughts, yes, but also in a deeper way.  Such faith is often ridiculed these days – and sometimes with good reason.  There are a lot of increasingly vocal lunatics out there who use religion as an excuse for expressing their lunacy.  Critics of religion properly point this out – but they forget that people who aren’t looking to dispatch every non-believer are entitled to their beliefs.  We may not be able to provide an absolute proof of their validity but the comfort that is given at a funeral does provide proof of their value. 

There is a series of books written by C.S. Lewis about a country called Narnia.  Most everyone knows them.  Beginning with The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe they tell stories about children who pass between our world and Narnia and the adventures they have.  I loved those books.  I think I’ve read them each over twenty times. And it wasn’t until I was about 17 years old that I realised they were actually highly regarded as religious allegories.  If you are wondering how I possibly could have missed this rather obvious fact just let me tell you again – a little slow folks, a little slow.

Anyway – in one of the books, “The Silver Chair” (soon to be a major motion picture) two children, a long missing prince and one completely invented companion called a “Marsh Wiggle” are kidnapped by an evil queen and held captive in an underground kingdom.  The witch/queen prepares an enchanted fire and lulls the group into a belief that the underground world is all that exists, that their belief in an above ground life is foolish.  “Where does the light come from” she asks – and when they describe the sun she laughs and says “You actually believe there is a burning light that hangs above you”?  When they describe the sky she says “you actually believe there is a sky with no roof to keep it in – it just magically stays in place?”  The same applies to the stars and the mountains.  They all must be made up.  There can’t be any world beyond that which they can see and touch and as the enchantment takes hold the children and the prince begin to despair and agree – yes, there can be no sun, yes there can be no sky – they can’t see them so they must not exist.  Then, out of nowhere, the Marsh Wiggle, who had been an extremely gloomy and depressing character up to then, gathers his strength and stomps his bare, webbed foot into the fire, breaking the enchantment.  With the smell of burnt Marsh Wiggle clearing their heads the group hears their friend say the following:

I suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world.

I’m going to stand by it too.  Because as slow as I may be, I’m not stupid. I can make this world as good as possible without abandoning hope in a next one.  I can believe that the best things here do not just end.

That a strong spirit doesn’t just end.

That a sense of joy doesn’t just end.

That class doesn’t just end.

That Linda Higgins doesn’t just end.

So to my Uncle Frank, to my cousins, to the rest of the family I’m sorry I’m not there right now. Keep the faith, I’ll see you soon.  This is a terrible loss, but you’ll get through and the sun will rise.

Eternal rest grant unto her O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon her -

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.