Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future