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Entry tags:
- death,
- family,
- father,
- reflection,
- sad
Almost between generations
If my father had not died 13 years ago, he would have turned 98 yesterday.
In less than 6 months, I will be the age of his father when he died at 49.
I’m certainly hoping to be more in the range of my father than grandfather.
But, I have so far avoided the problems with alcohol and morphine that
caused my grandfather to die at about my current age.
My grandfather died 28 years before I was born, leaving his family in
massive debt in the middle of the depression. His gallbladder went bad.
Although a medical doctor himself, in 1930’s Vermont the economy had moved
back to the barter system as no one had any cash. So, he was more often
paid for his services in chickens or other similar things than cash. But,
the hospitals that could have operated on him did not take chickens as
payment.
So, he self-medicated his pain away. The combination of the gall bladder,
drugs and alcohol killed him.
Growing up, those were the stories I heard about him.
(One of the reasons I gave up alcohol 100% was my fear of this, or
something like this happening to me. It was easier for me to give it up
100% than to try and find a safe half way point.)
My grandfather and my father never got along. My grandfather had been a
professional baseball player before going to medical school. My father was
no good at sports and wanted to play the violin. He wanted my father to
also become a doctor. My father became an electrical engineer.
Outside of my father, his sister and mother, I’ve only met one other person
who knew my grandfather.
When we buried my father back in 2000, the man who had buried my
grandfather 65 years before came out to take care of my father as well.
He was 93 at the time, but said it was still his job.
He went to put my father’s ashes in the ground and my wife and I were
afraid he was going to fall in after them. So, I took that over. The same
when he picked up the shovel to fill in the hole.
When we were done, he looked at the gravestones of my grandparents.
“I knew them,” he said in a sad tone. “They were good people.”
That one statement from a man I never met before or since really meant a
lot to me. Before then I never really thought about it from the point of
view of the other folks in town. I only looked at it through my father’s
eyes, and it was not a kind view.
But, here was one of the people who may well have been paying in chickens
back in the early 30’s who saw the town doctor die because he hadn’t
demanded cash from poor people.
In a very real way, it destroyed my father’s family. His mother had to
sell the house and move back with her family when she was 48. My father
had to declare his frat house his permanent residence and he never really
reconnected to his mother and sister after that.
But, I had never before looked at it from the point of view of the people
my grandfather helped.
It had never even occurred to me that what he did would have been
appreciated and that 65 years later someone not in the family would stand
over his grave and be sorry he was gone.
My father did his best in his life. He worked hard. Tried not to have
problems with anyone. And, for most of my life I thought more highly of
him than of his father.
But, I very much doubt anyone is going to miss him 65 years after he’s
gone. (I’d be 102, and my brother 100, so not likely for even family
members.)
The upshot of all this is I don’t want to have the legacy of their of those
two guys called Frank Hunt before me.
But, I’ve never been that interested in path following, so maybe that’s OK.
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But no matter who our families are, our lives are always better when we choose our own paths.