The world we see has lost a clear, fair, caring thinker. The world we do not see (I fully trust) has gained him. Here's honoring my uncle Marshal F. Merriam: Co-CPO of the Paul, Marshal Lockhart, Hugh, Alan, and Charles Production Company; big brother and youthful construction architect for my father Winthrop Merriam (he drew the plans; Dad pounded nails); grandson of IRS Suit Pioneer Frederick Merriam (personal financial secretary to (one of the) Vanderbilts, who stressfully called him out at all hours - but left him a gift he successfully? sued the government to save from improper taxation); former material sciences professor at Berkeley (where he and wife Jane raised 5 boys in a house they liberally kept unlocked, resulting in some guy walking in off the street one night and starting to bang away at their piano - eventually leaving); sponsor of Mennonite missons; purchaser of tombstones for certain unmarked graves; hearty answerer of his phone every April Fools Day when I called him on his birthday.
Ironic note - I couldn't remember certain historic details for this piece, and thought, "I need to call Uncle Marshal - he'd know." With every "mortal graduation" passes a world of memories and info. But we can keep their influence from disappearing. For example, there's my Uncle's commitment to fair treatment, when he disapproved of the family using their D.A.R. and S.A.R. pedigrees for special scholarships; saying it smacked of anti-immigrant elitism or something. (referring to Daughters and Sons of the American Revolution via provable direct descent from an original fighting Revolutionary Patriot). (I think people are still applying for DAR scholarships anyway. Money is money.) (As we see in political lobbying all the time. Not to bring politics into this. Which I just did.)
I wish I'd had more conversations with him. I wish I had asked more questions. I wish I had taken the time to go visit him in Northern Cal. for some "face to face". I wish I'd been able to send him a Christmas card made out of Maine birch bark from the family lake place. (The bark is still in the bag - like so many other good intentions.)
We learn from each other- about the importance of constant companions, as well. One of his steady friends called Uncle Marshal last Sunday morning, and noticed his verbal response was garbled. He was obviously impaired. So she immediately dialed 911 and then his closest son, who started the 90 minute drive between them. When the paramedics arrived, he was unconscious. They subsequently found the bleeding from a hemorrhagic stroke had been so extensive, there was no hope he'd ever wake up - so they made him comfortable. His family gathered around his bed to say their good-byes, knowing that (supposedly?) hearing is one of the last senses to end. They hoped he heard them.
I'm sure he did - and that he continues to hear, and see, and learn immensely more than ever before. And that he greeted his old construction buddy/brother Winthrop (who died a decade ago of Parkinsons-related whole body atrophy); along with his younger brother Michael (who succumbed last year to pancreatic cancer); his father Winthrop Sr.; and his widowed mother Prall (who sadly passed away all alone in a care center, having had her lifelong luxurious long hair cut to her shoulder tops for their convenience - and having just been served ice cream. That's all I know of her mortal "graduation" - that it was preceded by ice cream. I hope it was good ice cream.)
Note: she was only in a local care center because employment laws made it too onerous to hire in- house help "over the counter", and my parents were too principled to operate "under". (Is it ever better to choose moral over legal? - so Grandma might've had family around her, instead of minimum wage ice cream distributors?) Of course they visited her, but it's never the same.
Yet she still speaks to us. There's an old handwritten note of hers magnet-ed to our refrigerator:
"Therefore - come what may- hold fast to love.
Though men should rend your heart, Let them not embitter or harden it.
We win by tenderness. We conquer by forgiveness." - W. Robertson
That's a thought I'm sure she passed on to her oldest son, Marshal, and her second son, my dad. Then on to me. Now on to you.
Timeless and especially timely this year.
Requiescat in pace: MFM. And PGBM. WMSr., WMJr., MCM, JGB, ...
And may we have/make peace as well, - K
Sydney, one moving muscle of a little kid, is one (& 7/12ths). ONE and:
1) DONE (what their life / housework will not be - for 18+ more years.)
2) HUN (as in cousin to Attila?) Sydney the Hun - rampaging her way through.
3) TON (of energy. (That's a whole lotta electrons.) See #7)
4) FUN (are we having it yet)
5) RUN (away from caregiver. really fast. especially in nice big wide open spaces. among scary strangers.)
6) UN (she UNdoes things and stuff.)
7) STUN (-ningly active, active, active, bright, active, active, active, strong, and did we mention active)
8) NONE (number of raisins remaining on her high chair tray - no matter how many we put out)
9) SON (what they get next, after Xmas. Poor kid's doomed to live in Stunning Sis's Shadow.)
10) MON (-key moves strongly suggest simian ancestors. On father's side of course.)
We're still stepping on Cheerios and yellow rubber duckies in the tub. There's no white noise machine whoooosssshhhhhing away in the guest bedroom. The cats are slowly (and very cautiously) venturing down from the garage rafters. None of the books/toys/doorstops/anything not nailed down/ is where it used to be. Nobody saying "Gampa" on command, or "no no no no no Nonononononononononononono!" - when we try to put her where she doesn't want to be.
We miss that little Moosecake. (And of course her Mama! After all, no Mama, no Moose. And no Mama's Mama, no Mama; then no Moose. Which would make yours truly- and then Great Gram, and Great-Great Gram PGBM (of the above quote). etc.- what? important.)
"In Memoriam" we remember who made us possible. Now we consider what (who) we make possible.
Not to forget that our possibilities are so still possible. It ain't over til it's over. And even then, as observed, it still ain't over. Cuz we leave stuff behind. (On refrigerators and hearts alike.)
The other side is real, and we're not just pieces of gradually expiring meat on feet. We have souls / spirits / intelligence (varying degrees of the latter?!) (There are even rational books about that we'll be reviewing.)
But time is fleeting. So should be our fingers, as well- in recording good things. And our feet in running to do them. And our eyes in looking for them. Our ears in hearing, not just listening. And our minds, in sifting the good things from all the bad out there, sent to confuse us.
Fleet, like little Sydney Feet at the Pumpkin Patch; happily running along. And going somewhere. (Or maybe just cuz it's fun- to run. Wherever we end up.) And hope our caregiver/steady buddy is staying close by, just in case we ever have a need.
Be glad (that you can), be grateful (for who came before), be vigilant (for the future) - and be friends, now!
Take care, K (The as-of-yet Nameless Spouse of Gampa)