Time of Life

 

Living at Azalea Trace, a retirement community that she helped establish in Pensacola, EG, my father's sister Evalyn (yes, it was spelled with an "a", which my persnickety spell-check refuses to accept; and her name was Evalyn Godfrey Weller, which is why we called her EG, the Godfrey was her mother's maiden surname, but I have no idea why Evalyn with an "a") used to speak to groups at "the Trace" about helping deal with aging loneliness by opening what she called one's Treasure Chest of Memories. Which for most all of us is filled with stories from our different places and Times of life. 

Mine certainly is, stories major and minor, big and little, significant and obscure, stories known throughout the family and stories, memories, known to us alone, or to just one other person and that one perhaps dead, stories to tell and stories so private and personal that they are beyond ever sharing with anyone. 

Ever since my living experience of the oblivion of death that was my Monday, 24 January 2011 under the deepest sedation of general anesthesia for open heart surgery, when I was even beyond dreaming, I've been mindful that we have memories, stories that, once we die, are lost for all Time, even throughout all Eternity. Memories pleasant, delightful and painful, some tucked away inaccessible in the subconscious, even some that have determined who and what we are and have been. 

I've always wondered, for example, at Times agonized over, why, what made me such an introvert, such a private person who, no matter who I've loved and who I've known has loved me, has always been most comfortable with just me myself alone, when I'd rather have been like those whose personalities I've envied most, my brother, my sister, my son, a nephew, a grandson. 

And the stories. Not only all that I've experienced, discovered, studied, and know, but all the stories in my own Treasure Chest of Memories, will be lost forever that morning that I don't wake up; or, depending only, I'm quite sure, on one's faith, wake up in another realm.

It's one reason I regret, and am now experiencing, that It's too late forever to ask my father questions about when he was a boy, or sit and hear Pop's stories that he wanted to share with me; or grab my phone, and ring, email, or text a family question to Gina. Her memory was phenomenal. She even remembered when I asked her about the dating of when our family of five drove over to Apalachicola to look around at houses when our parents were considering relocating there: Gina said we were in the dark blue 1942 Chevrolet, which, other factors stirred in, puts it after the War, between late 1945 and early 1948. Why didn't we make the move? I'm guessing it had to do with the difficulty and indecision of making such an overwhelming change, and also with our mother's concern about the three of us growing up there. Mama was always concerned about who our friends were and what values we developed in our associations and surroundings. I'm guessing that Mama looked around Apalachicola that day and put her foot down.

Me, I was game then and, now having lived there for one of the most memorable parts of my life, I could go back in an instant. It's where Tass grew up and I was at home those years after my years of moving and traveling and tucking away other memories; it's where I learned how much one could love a community; it's where we lived when Nicholas was born and came into my life in such a major way, it's when Kristen was born and changed everything completely. It's where I baptized grandchildren Nick, Ray, and Kristen. It's where we, at least I, contemplated returning when we sold The Old Place, and again in the personal trauma that followed Hurricane Michael. 

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Why am I here - -  loosing the fingers for this tippy type this Friday evening of Kristen's 30th birthday. It's because of the supper I enjoyed tonight. After finishing other shopping today, we drove to the Winn-Dixie at Beck Avenue and 23rd Street, to buy noon dinner at their delicatessen - - fried fish. And because I like their fried fish, I bought four pieces so there'd be enough for supper as well. A fried fish sandwich with cheese melted on it, on a soft hamburger bun, the ends of the fish filet sticking way out both sides of the bun. And a memory surfaced, a very short and personal story.

One of my life's best Times started Friday evening, 1 February 1985, when the phone rang in our motel room in Mobile, Alabama, while I was looking out the window at the battleship USS ALABAMA; and son Joe told me, "You have a grandson. Nicholas Kevin Weller." Both in the U S Army, where they met, Joe and Dianne were living in Killeen, Texas. Linda and I were in Mobile for our first Diocesan Convention after having returned home from Pennsylvania. Nicholas arriving started a whole new chapter of life for me. One short story in that chapter was a quick food place that Nick insisted that he and I go on one of our Times together - - I'm not remembering its name - - to order their Fish Sandwich, because the filet of fish was so delicious and because it was so big, so long, that the bun couldn't contain it, it stuck way out both ends. As the small child whom I called "granddaddy's boy", Nick introduced me to my love of fish sandwiches; and that story surfaced Friday evening at supper 

as I also remembered how I felt, the burst and realization, rush of emotional bonding that suddenly consumed me as Linda and I drove home from Gulf Coast Hospital that dark night/early wee hours after Kristen was born and I had held her, and claimed her as my own,

Linda and I had sat anxiously in the fathers' or grandparents' waiting room for hours until Joy came in and told us the baby has been born and is fine. I asked her, "Boy or girl?" Joy said, "Well, come see!" I said, "No, I have to know right now." Joy said that we had a little girl, a granddaughter and led us across the hall and to the birthing room, where Malinda lay sitting up in bed holding her. Joy took her and asked, "Does anybody want to hold her?" I said, "Yes, I do," and In the madness of my insanity I said to Linda, "Get away, woman, you can hold her later." And I held her a long Time until Malinda said, "I'll take her back when you get tired of holding her, " and I said, "Let me tell you something: that's never gonna happen."

Nicholas and Kristen I raised and/or helped raise in a close personal way of loving them that made me feel as if they were mine exclusively, nobody else's, mine and mine alone.

Relationships change of course, as they should and do and must in order for each of us to have our own Being. That dark wee hours Time was Wednesday, 13 January 1993: Kristen turned 30 years old today. In less than three weeks, Nick will turn 38. It seems impossible. When I was 30 I was an eager, newly promoted Navy lieutenant commander heading home from Japan to our new duty station in Washington, DC. When I was 38 years old, I was a U S Navy commander determined to hold out to age 42 to retire and leave the military and make all my own decisions about my life. I had no idea either Time that at age 87 heading to 88, I would be living at 7H as one of Earth's happiest people.

Time does it all to us and, mostly, for us.

RSF&PTL

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