In my career, I have witnessed many deaths—usually in the hospital and usually with an air of expectation. In my life, I have had many family members die: all my grandparents, my stepfather and father all before I graduated high school. I have been to two funerals or internments in my life. Both were for parents of friends. The girl next door growing up, Rene, lost both her parents and after a deliberation of many years, decided to mix their ashes and have a formal internment here in Washington. I was honored to attend and remain surprised at how much this event affected me.
Our culture embraces such moments in books, the news, and movies. What should be familiar from this exposure did not prepare me for the short but powerful ceremony. The setting was Fort Warden which has a connection to Kernie: her father was an officer there in the early 1950’s after his tour in Korea. Her brother was delivered there (by her father). The end of summer was delayed and we had beautiful weather as we bunkered in one of the old quarters at this old fort. The cemetery was small, green, and nearly full. A heavy-set bald man with a beautiful voice and a sash around his neck proclaiming him a Marine greeted us and spoke the words of the internment. His speech was simple as it was crisp and clear. He called roll and asked for Captain Riley three times. Captain Riley did not answer. It was the last roll call. Three volleys were fired as two sailers unfurled and then re folded the American flag. Growing up around sailers, I always thought dress whites looked like an anachronism if not silly but on that day, I did not see that. The dignity they imparted was undeniable.
Rene’s father, as many of the parents of my generation came of age during World War II. In this case, he was a Naval Academy graduate who they graduated early so he could serve in the Pacific in 1944. His career during the cold war was in submarines and this took him all over the world. He died of a stroke in his seventies over twenty years ago and his remains were stored and then mixed with those of his wife, Joanne when she died in her nineties, in 2019.
These parents were very much typical for the times: the father a career office was a force, but not seen or heard all that often in the day-to-day. Joanne on the other hand, ran the family and kids and exerted her influence long after we all grew up. Rene and her parents are among the first people not in my family that I ever came to know. My history with them was sketchy and infrequent, but stretched from 1958 to today.
My introduction to this family occurred in the vacant lot that separated our two houses on move-in day, sometime in 1958. I was disconcerted in that the eldest child had the same name as me. Randi was a female. It was my first experience regarding names and gender. I got over it quickly. These four kids were a force to be reckoned with. Within days, the vacant lot became a battle ground and by my brother’s account, we were outnumbered in our foxhole, when I grubbed out a huge dirt clod and charged foolishly ahead to their foxhole, delivering my missile with both hands over my head. I was halfway back to base when a shriek was heard. My dirt clod had within it, a rock, and someone’s forehead needed a few stitches. The confrontation with parents over this war was to ripple for decades. Joanne and my mother would have a feud that never ended; in their eighties, my mother related giving a half-assed wave to Joanne as she came along our house in the alley, and in return, she stuck her tongue out.
So much for the dignity we impart to aging parents.
I had issues with Joanne personally. When I associated with Rene or her younger brother, Joanne was irritable, teasing, and dismissive. Joanne had no filters and spoke her mind without considering the consequences. As a young man taking Rene to see the Mothers of Invention, her Joanne had no problem making eye contact and shaking her head —no, no, no. This is hard on adolescents but adult neighbors had issues as well and would gossip when she had a sailer’s car towed after a couple weeks (the sailer was at sea) despite the fact that it was parked in front of a vacant lot. She had strong opinions about art (she was an artist), and gardening (she brought flowers to the annual flower show in Coronado), and religion; she was by virtue of marriage, an Irish Catholic. The Irish flag flew on that house on St Patrick’s day. My mother of course thought she put it on wrong and was flying the Italian flag. The Irish heritage was important and one of her sons, a bit in his cups after the internment, affected a strong Irish accent when telling priest jokes.
With time, Joanne was a terrifying. When I outgrew my models, my friends and I would shoot them up in the vacant lot with a BB gun. This was normal adolescent behavior in the mid 1960’s. The three of us were “cornered” in that the police were on the street and the alley at the same time. Joanne claimed we had been shooting birds. We had not been shooting birds. The remains of the USS Arizona and USS Olympia were the proof but we were kids and Joanne was, well, Joanne. I did dodge a bullet; the only guy that got in trouble that day was Rick whose father was a friend of one of the police officers. The rest of us were on the honor system to report our crime to our parents. There was no way I was telling my parents that Joanne had caught me on the wrong side of the law.
One night in my room, I could hear Joanne berating one of her children in a taunting style that reminded me later of a drunk Irishman as depicted in the movies. I heard blows land. When driving Rene home after I had my driver’s license, I tried to tease her by parking up against a shrubs on the passenger side only to lose track of where the front of the car was. I hit a cinder block structure that supported the gate into their back yard and had visions of this column of cement landing on the windshield. That did not pass, but the gate was never going to close again. The car had but a tiny dimple in the bumper and in just the right light, the quarter panel. Rene was clear: leave and never speak of this to anyone. Weeks later, Lethe (my mother) would laugh as she enjoyed Joanne’s futile attempt to lay blame on the trash men claiming it was their truck that had to have done the damage. Joanne was only told the truth when she was very old and frail. My mother never knew.
Despite my memories, when Joanne was frail and failing, Kernie and I did a home visit in Coronado. My affable nature was nowhere to be found as we planned this—childhood traumas lie deep. However, as we presented ourselves and updated her medical status with her caretaker, I found her frail—even sweet. She informed me that she knew my mother had passed and said it gently-- with sincerity. It was not clear to me that she truly remembered who I was—I certainly no longer look like the guy she would have remembered. Chatting her up, the conversation turned to alcohol. I mentioned enjoying Bourbon. She asked if I would like one. I deferred, noting it wasn’t even noon yet.
She challenged me: “Pussy!”
We helped at Joanne’s wake. The bartender at the open bar was her eldest son. The price for a drink? “You have to say something nice, a memory, of my mother.” He was often met with silence and then a superficial, polite commentary. I was not alone in this.
Joanne was obviously daunting to me personally but also presents a reality that evades many doctors. We remember our patients who smoked and died of lung cancer. We tend to forget the chain smokers that lived into their 80’s and 90’s. My friends with parents in San Diego tell a very common story: their parents survived World War Two and in the aftermath, had what we consider atrocious habits: they smoked, drank, drove drunk, ate food heavy with animal fat and carbohydrates. Like Joanne, many live into their late 80’s, minds intact.
Jack, Joanne’s husband was not so lucky. He died in his seventies of a stroke. It was his story contrasting with Joanne that came to light in the ceremony. Like many fathers when I grew up, he was a disciplining presence when he was around and engaged. Being a submariner, he was gone a lot. He served well in the cold war and presumably on that destroyer, months before Japan’s surrender. His death was quick and shocking—on of the first of my peer’s. Joanne’s was the slow death—of old age and all that attends it. Joanne’s obituary was lovely and the non published first draft had a racy and humorous reflection on their relationship which started here in Washington State. Joanne was a Washingtonian teaching skiing at White Pass when she spied an Academy graduate just learning the ropes.
I am pleased to have been there early in their lives and signing off long after they passed.
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