Today, November 11, is the anniversary of my father’s death. If you’ve known me for any length of time, you know that he was 54 and I was 26.
Do I talk too much of the dead? Does my preoccupation interfere with their peace? Or yours?
As if my need could disturb the dead! My need makes my hair stand on end but likely goes unnoticed by them.
My need sends me to the banks of the River Styx, hoping to snag the ferryman Charon on his way back from the Underworld. Does he ever give updates, that guy? Might he know, for instance, whether the young one’s spirit hovers in Colorado because his lost love has a birthday in two weeks? Another date to mark — among many that impart dread and sorrow.
She was here on her so-called “golden birthday.” The 24th when she turned 24, whenever that was – two years ago? Maybe three. I’ll have to check my camera roll. Talk about trips to the Underworld! That’s a scroll that can peel off my skin and leave me raw and begging for mercy. My golden birthday, by the way, was in the mid-60s when I turned nine.
My maternal grandmother, Alice Healy Jacques, offered up two middle names: mine, Alice, and Danny’s, Healy. The anniversary of her death is in three days, November 14th.
The first funeral I ever attended was her husband’s. To his wake, I wore a navy blue knit dress with the prettiest picot lace-edged collar. I might’ve worn white gloves too, as one did back then. I recall feeling an irrepressible need to laugh, all while trying to appear pious in front of the coffin. He was bald, my grandpa, and named Albert.
At his bedside before he died he thought I was Arlene, confirmation that, yes indeed, I took after my mother’s younger sister. She’s the one, Arlene, who told me how shocked she was as a child to discover when visiting a friend that other parents didn’t call each other “Al” – Al for Albert and Al for Alice.
My other grandmother was named Alice too, so I guess I hit the Ancestor bonanza with my middle name
I barely knew either of them.
Alice Healy Jacques looked like Vera, which is part of why I loved that British mystery series so much. She could recite poetry, my Nana. She’d scrunch up her face and go.
Nana could not cook though. My mother liked to say, “She couldn’t boil an egg if her life depended on it.” I don’t know if Alice was born in County Cork or Brooklyn, but that’s a story for another day.
My other grandma, Alice Mallon, lived in Queens and walked to Mass early every morning, her nylons swishing between her thighs as she went. She was wry and probably funny, but with a humor geared to adults which meant that to us kids she seemed a little scary, maybe even mean.
My father, the youngest of four, was born the year of the great crash. His mother blithely announced on some occasion or other (with a little chuckle no doubt) that had abortion been legal, she would’ve aborted my father. Reminder: this woman said the rosary morning, noon, and night.
Such a sentiment shocked even the young girl I was then, but you should know that my cynical rebuke of Catholicism began very early.
Not before my first Communion, though. The year of second grade, I was too enamored with the delicate, lacy veils, the pearl-buttoned white gloves, the gilt-edged missals, and those rosary beads, approximating the prettiest of necklaces. Maybe it was the year after, although I have never forgotten how outraged I was at Father Chamberlain when he bellowed to a church full of eight-year-olds about to receive their First Communion that we were all on the road to hell.
Jesus! And I had to wonder recently at a gathering about indigo and ancestral memory why I have yet to feel much of a call to contact my forebears?
My father was funny and liked to fish, just like my dead son, which is one reason why I’ve wondered whether he might’ve been one of the souls to meet Danny on the other side. They would understand each other — knowing of the great solace offered by time spent alone in nature where the music of rushing water is the only prayer required. Maybe my dad would’ve laughed at my son’s strict catch and release practices and asked, “Have you ever smelled a trout being sautéed in brown butter?”
Is food or appetite or hunger anything departed souls even bother to talk about?
November is a month for the dead — veterans, the growing dark, mood and melancholy, etc. But I do now need to ask: what month going forward for me will not be for the dead?
Dee~ The Al & Al story made me smile…those little things that become woven into family culture. You’ve made me think of my grandparents (we were just talking about our grandmothers yesterday, so it must be the season!) and any traits I may have gotten from them…or refuted intentionally because of them? I never knew my maternal grandfather, as he died when my mom was just 11 years old – so there is stuff there, for sure…and my dad’s (not blood, as he adopted us after marriage) mom was a mean, unbalanced…okay crazy in a mean way lady whom I never liked – she made me hate gold frames, especially in abundance – she had a living room wall filled with them, not quite the Oval Office, but you get my drift. Yuck.
Death is always near…is that the saying? So, I feel like it is okay to talk about it whenever. But, that is me. That Halloween 2023 pic is some sort of foretelling to me. Mmm? My golden birthday was when I was 2, but I didn’t know about that tradition until my youngest niece turned 29! haha I’m not much for milestones, I guess! I’m sure his girlfriend carries much that will never be known. Sad all of the way around.
I’ve caught one fish in my life. My ex insisted I try fishing with him. I can still recall the feel of the hook going in. I felt like a murderer and never fished again. He also did catch and release, but it was not something I found enjoyable. Hows that for death thoughts? ha
Take care through the month an those that follow.
I like hearing your story. The pix of the Oval Office must be a little triggering?
I’ve fished a few times but it never grabbed me either.
Dee~ Nah, only as triggering as it is for others who care about our country. But, yeah, I really dislike that gold thing. haha 🙂
So many of our family passed in November. And mid to late January. And so many arrived on the scene on the same dates. Weird. I may have to make a spread sheet of arrivals and departures. And so many Alice’s! Oy and don’t get me started on the new Marys, so not good – be glad that’s on my Gorman side and they seemed so sweet too zoiks!
Our shared Alice was a feisty old gal and, not to speak ill of the dead that I don’t know, but I think your dad may have heard that abortion quip much later in life from her. The one thing I know is that she was a holy roller and jokes about abortion would be pretty out of character. More likely it was said in anger. Weird family. Lots of skeletons in the Mallon closet.
I think of your son so much. Such an hard and harsh world to find himself in. Another family member I wish I knew. Your last post broke my heart.
We do spend lots of time contemplating and speaking to the ghosts. I’m more inclined to believe in a quantum reality than the Jesus trick but who knows? What I do know is that November is their month to connect. Maybe the cold eases their moment among us? Hug the air. I bet you will catch a piece of them.
XO Ginny
Btw I never heard that abortion quip as serious but rather as a harsh joke.
Who else passed in November? Your mom?
As I get older I have more respect for the ones who have passed and lead a less EASY life than I had. I do wish my grandmother had passed to me her skills in cooking and baking…at least recipes. But I was too young and silly to gather that treasure.
That’s a deep regret.
November is indeed a melancholy month. On the 24th of this month, it will be the 6 month mark of Rich’s death. Your post came just when I needed it to for it reads like a prayer Dee, an honest reflection of family and grief and memory.
Will there every be a month without thoughts of death? I don’t know and I don’t know because we, you and I, are still in the first year of our grief. The words about your Dad touched me.. My Dad was my touchstone and I know he is always near. I never knew any of my grandparents because they were all dead in Spain before I was even a twinkle in anyone’s eyes. I don’t even know what half of them look like only seeing photos of my Mom[‘s parents..
Next month, some of my family in southern CA will gather for a funeral, a Catholic mass, and after the service,a get together of food and music to honor the life of my sister-in-law who died last month. My nephew is in charge of these arrangements and he has been reaching out to me. I will not be able to attend, so I have sent some words and thoughts that he will use in the service. Above all, we believe that this is a celebration of a good life. While it is hard maybe to think of death and celebration in the same sentence, I believe so strongly in this concept. Whether or not thoughts of death visit us every month, we will face it,th knowing that we celebrate our loved one with memories, with tears, with laughter, with joy tinged with sorrow at times and always, always with Love that is ever lasting.