“I told you this one would be a doozey.”
“OK, so get on with it.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while. And a whole whopping lot has happened, so I hardly know where to begin.
Let me first try to summarize what it’s done for me. It is all actually a story. A story with a plot that goes something like this:
- Lost
- Found
- Transformed
It began in New Orleans in early September when I took Patty, Annie, and Jim with me to attend the annual 13th Armored Division reunion. It was truly an amazing set of events, and even had reminders of our trip there in 1988. Let me start with that.
The four of us had some time off from all the scheduled events and we took a trip down to where you and I were so many years ago. It was so like our experiences that I know it was not a coincidence. It was part of God’s plan. A plan of revelation. A plan where similarities are the instructional part of the story. Instructional, if we have the vision to see them.
Here’s what I saw: Remember Jackson Square? Remember when we took a carriage ride with that couple from New Zealand, had beignets at the market place, photographed the St. Louis Cathedral, and later visited the Preservation Hall in the French Quarter?
Well we did it again. Not exactly as it was before, but so close that it was not coincidence. Instead of you, I had two of our daughters and our son-in-law, Jim. They were all a part of you. Those parts of you were with me again. We found joy together again. It was a happy time, both then and now. We didn’t get to Preservation Hall, but right smack in front of the Cathedral, there was a black Dixieland band playing all those same tunes we heard there in 1988. It was so amazing that I still can’t believe it happened the way it did. Even the band was the same band that played with my idol; Tuba Fats Lasen, on my favorite compact disc.
It was there that I realized I had a voice. A Tuba voice. Not in front of the band in solo mode, but way in the back row in support mode. Support in beat for those who perform melody. Beat as in heart. Heart which sustains life. In that sense, I began a process of discovery.
A process that continued at that same reunion. Continued through an unfathomable honor. An honor accorded to another kind of back row dweller. This time a dweller for over 70 years as a low-ranking PFC, who, however, was still a member of a very unique group of fatherhood types who put their lives up for their families in the do or die struggle of WWII. The honor of being chosen as President of their memorial association.
This was only the beginning. No sooner did I get home, but I found myself packing for another long trip. Longer than the New Orleans trip, and a lot farther. A trip to the land of some of our ancestors – Ireland.
How come Ireland, you might ask?
Well to shorten up a very long story, it came about mainly as a result of a whole bunch of serendipitous contacts that directed my attention to attempting to find reasons for my unusual behavior. I had for a long time suspected that my ancestors seeded me with weeds that kept me from being the crop I should have been. I wanted to get a closer look at the environment that succored those weeds, and see if there was any way they could be sorted out and burned before I was put in the thrashing machine.
Those contacts occurred through the Osher program at RIT. Patty had first suggested I become part of that program when you left. She had seen how it benefitted another person who suffered the same loss, and felt it would rejuvenate me, as well. She was right.
I chose, at her suggestion, to learn to write. I joined a writing class and started. As I progressed I came upon the realization that my writing might be better accepted if it contained a few laughs (I learned that from you), and I began writing about a character I named Skibootch. I named him after an expression Granddaddy used when I told him a tall tale (not the truth). I equated it in my mind at an early age as a polite name for bullshit.
Skibootch fast became a celebrity, and many of my class began spreading his name. People I hardly knew enquired about Skibootch. He had found a way to become famous. Not through achievement of difficult tasks or sports, but through being himself – warts and all. People seemed to appreciate him more for it.
As all this was happening, I expanded my participation at Osher to include classes in writing memoirs and Irish literature. It was those classes that cinched the deal. My memoirs were full of material that needed correction. My Irish literature class opened my eyes to all sorts of writing influences and potential, as well as, a curiosity for a better understanding of my possible ancestral quirks.
Then to top it all off, one of my fellow class members was sister to a pair of Irish folk singing brothers, who, when I took in their performances, captured my musical soul. The clincher occurred when I learned that they sponsored a tour to Ireland which featured a mix of personal historical significance and pub crawling that included family singing. Who could resist that combination? Expense be damned! I had to go…
Well, on it I went. Was I disappointed? Only that it ended so soon, and my age held my participation to related limits, but believe me, I stretched them to their maximum. The tour turned out to be part two of my discovery of a lost self. The stage was being set for a transformation. A transformation from a Skibootch to a Buddy.
A transformation that had its grounding in our lives together. My problem was that I never could see how that was happening. But, it started its process when I visited Ireland. I began seeing double. By that I mean I began to perceive two views of the same scene. As my Skibootch stories and Brown Suit stories begin to coalesce, you will see what I mean. I will have more to say about that later. Those stories are at the heart of my transformation, and will emerge as they proceed. The Brown Suit stories are my name for my 13th Armored Division memoirs. Ironically, they both began to foster my double vision during my trips this past September.
October began in its usual routine manner with me taking Annie to lunch and having dinner with Phil, most every week. Anne has found a calling with the Enriots. They rely on her to watch over Corky who is no longer able to care for herself, and had to move in with Cindy. In my view, it is a blessing in disguise. Her life has become more purposeful, and at the same time, more peaceful. Her persona reflects it.
Phil is fairly caught up with his new girlfriend Martha, with whom, by the way, I am impressed. Our get togethers are less frequent, but that suits us both, as I seem to be busier that I have been ever since you left. The biggest happening during this period was Marge’s passing. She actually died on September 25th when I was in Ireland.
As in many situations with older ailing people, it was not unexpected, and in some sense a blessing. She did suffer, but when I got home and contacted Carl, I learned that she had passed peacefully and resolute in her expectations for a better life in eternity. She, like you, had the strength of her great faith. It allowed her to welcome her transition.
Patty, Jim, and I went to Walloon Lake, Michigan to be with the Harmon family as they honored her memory in much the same way we did yours. We gathered in two celebratory meals, and held a brief family oriented ceremony in her lake house yard. The ceremony was, like yours, family only centered. There was one very, to my mind, significant part of that ceremony that allowed us Whelan’s to contribute.
It happened like this: Patty, thoughtfully, had us stop along the way to Walloon Lake and find something appropriate as a celebratory gift. The only thing we could find in that remote section of Michigan was a large crock of purple chrysanthemums. It, in its own way, was a small miracle. As it turned out, the designated burial places of Marge’s ashes were four spots in their backyard garden, and whatever remained to be put into Walloon Lake.
Would you believe it; the Harmon’s were planting large crocks of chrysanthemums in four garden holes, when they suddenly realized they only had three crocks. Voila, the Whelan’s had inadvertently brought the fourth. There are no coincidences. We were a designated part of that ceremony. Family was complete…
So, the Whelan’s did a lot of traveling
Kathy has been reporting on her battle against breast cancer. The reports indicate a retardation of its influence. There are still a lot of unknowns and possibilities, but the signs she reports seem to be going in a positive direction. She, like you, is a fighter, and she will do all she can to beat it. If she has the strength of faith that you had, she, with God’s help, can do it. We pray for her.
Patty had Thanksgiving at her house again. Not as many there this time, but everything was, as usual, superb. Had a huge snowstorm earlier in the week. We had a foot and a half here, as did Mike. Patty and Jim hardly any. However, it is all gone now as we await whatever winter holds in store.
I have included a picture of me and two of my lady friends who accompanied me to Ireland. The Osher Institute decided to feature it on the cover of their Winter course catalog. The lady on my left is Carol Samuel, my Memoirs Teacher, and the lady on the right is Suzanne Meagher, sister of the Dady Brothers (who ran our tour) and a fellow writing student. Both of those ladies are dear friends and we have, like you and I used to, have lots of laughs together.
That’s about it for this trip, but lots more to come, including reports on the various parties and concerts that surround me. Talk to you later.”