Thanksgiving is upon us once again. The car is loaded up, the kids are bouncing
off the walls, and we're just about ready to brave L.A. traffic as we head
for Grandma's house to partake in the annual ritual of getting the extended
family together for a holiday feast. Only it's not the same as it used to
be.
It's not the same because Paul won't be there.
It's been more than twenty years now, but sometimes when I close my eyes
I can still see that face as clearly as if it were yesterday. It is indelibly
etched into my psyche.
It looked vaguely like Paul. The mortician had done the best he could to
replace with putty that which had been blown away by bullets. Working from
photographs, he had attempted to reconstruct the handsome young man
that had barely begun his life.
But all that he had achieved was a macabre approximation.
The bereaved parents, my Uncle George and Aunt Mary, had requested that there
be no viewing of the body. They wanted Paul remembered as he had been in
life. But some family members protested that they wanted to see
him one last time. They wanted to say good-bye to the personable young man
in the casket.
The parents relented, allowing a limited number of close family members to
view the body of the deceased. I was, for better or worse, among that group
-- the group that was to learn that no amount of mortician's putty
and paint can disguise what happens when multiple bullets enter the back
of the head and exit through the face.
Paul's murder was never solved. To the police, he was just another drug dealer.
He had something that somebody wanted -- and wanted badly enough to kill
him to get it. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. And he
was, I suppose, a drug dealer. But that was only one small part of who he
was. He was also a son, an electrician, a father, a Navy veteran, a brother,
and, to my older brothers and I, an older and much-admired cousin.
Paul was never really much for Thanksgiving and family gatherings. He was
kind of the odd man out. Most of the cousins were very close in age, including
my brothers and I. Paul was too old and too cool to hang out with us, and
too young and too cool to hang out with the aunts and uncles.
The only ones close to his age were his sister Pam and Steve - another cousin
- and Paul never really forgave Steve for the incident at a family gathering
when he reluctantly agreed to let Steve ride his beloved motorcycle around
the block. Steve made it back, but the bike didn't.
So Paul generally made fairly brief appearances at family get-togethers.
But when Paul died, Thanksgiving died along with him. My Uncle George and
Aunt Mary sat out the first Thanksgiving after Paul died, unable to bear
the thought of having everyone there but the one who was missed the
most.
After that, Thanksgiving just kind of withered away. The other two branches
of the family made sporadic efforts to keep it alive, but it couldn't be
saved. Too much had been lost.
It began as a tradition among the two brothers, one living in Arcadia and
the other in San Diego, and the younger sister living in Torrance, who all
found themselves transplanted to Southern California from their native Iowa
-- along with their respective offspring.
The gatherings grew over the years as first girlfriends and boyfriends, and
then wives and husbands and kids, were added. It became the one time of the
year, the only time of the year, when everyone came - whether due to desire
or coercion - to spend the weekend with family.
But that was a long time ago.
The family has drifted apart -- the cousins, once as close as brothers, now
virtual strangers.
Another family came apart that same year. They lived right next door to my
family. They had moved out from Pennsylvania, and were adjusting well to
their new surroundings. The daughter, Karen - literally, the girl next door
- was engaged to one of my brothers. But then tragedy struck.
Teenaged son Darren was working at a local fast food outlet when he was notified
that his father was in the hospital and wasn't expected to live. He quickly
jumped on his motorcycle and raced towards that hospital.
He made it ... but not on his bike.
Normally a very safe rider, unlike many of the young and reckless riders
that I knew in those days, Darren was focused solely on getting to the hospital
in time to say good-bye to his dad. He took the turn too fast ... too sharp
... the pedal dug into the asphalt, the bike skidded out of control, and
Darren went headfirst into the railroad tracks.
He never had a chance. His father, however, pulled through. His condition
remained tenuous though for some time. He was in no condition to be informed
that his son was in another bed in the very same hospital, dying. And so
the wife and daughter had to keep up a strong front, and try to pretend that
they had not just lost a son and brother,
so that they might nurse a husband and father back to health, only to have
to tell him that he no longer had a son.
The father eventually came home ... but it wasn't home anymore. And the father
would never be the same. For evermore he would shoulder the weight of knowing
that his only son, the one who was to carry on the family name, had died
trying to reach his side.
The family swept up its tattered remains and headed back to Pennsylvania,
desperately trying to escape the gaping wound left by the state of California.
Enjoy your time this weekend with friends and family. There's not really
much else to be thankful for these days. And you never know when family could
be ripped asunder.
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the opinion of the author and is provided for educational purposes only.
It is not to be construed as medical advice. Only a licensed medical doctor
can legally offer medical advice in the United States. Consult the healer
of your choice for medical care and advice.