Time Has You

As time moves on your circle of the universe constantly expands and contracts. You meet new people, give birth, lose friends, lose touch with people, people die.

That latter has happened to me. This past Sunday my Uncle George O’Brien passed away.

I was not particularly close to Uncle George. By the time I came along, as a straggler in the O’Brien family, Uncle George was already a grandfather and I ended up palling around with his granddaughters. As a youth, he was always an enigmatic character with snowy white hair and a very distinguished manner. He looked vaguely like my late father, but had different mannerisms and characteristics.

I knew that my mother originally had a crush on George O’Brien. Strike that. She was completely taken with him. He was dashing. When she was still in high school, he was in the Navy in World War II. What could be dreamier to a 14 year old than a war hero?

I don’t know if he was a war hero or not. However, I do know that upon his return from the war he was sleeping in the second floor room he shared with my dad. It was near the Fourth of July and George was still a little bit edgy from his time in combat. While they slept fireworks sounded in the distance.

My father heard a rustle at the window and saw his older brother climbing out. George was still fast asleep. The sounds of the exploding fireworks triggered a reflex in which he needed to abandon ship.

Keep in mind; I heard this story from my mother, who heard it from my father, who was an unreliable story teller. However, I’d like to think it is true. Because an image like that deserves to exist. It’s a semi-funny, semi-sad tale. One that marks a life that was interesting.

As I grew up I started to admire Uncle George more. But not in the typical “uncle” way, where he took you to amusement parks or gave you candy. Rather, it was simply sitting down and talking with George that was exciting. Any opportunity you could find to listen to him tell you stories about his life, your parents, your grandparents, your great-grandparents was not taken lightly. You sat and listened as he spoon-fed you the sort of amazing details that you’d expect from a Raymond Chandler narration.

I always assumed that Uncle George’s stories were on the level. That all of those details were the absolute truth. He had the face of a man you could trust. And the voice of authority. But upon reflection, he had a twinkle in his eye that I recognize as a family trait. That twinkle that tells you that you may be entering into uncharted territory.

I know his stories were all based on fact, at least. But he may have embellished a little bit for dramatic effect. Which is just fine by me.

What strikes me about the death of Uncle George is that my last and final direct connection with my father’s family is gone. We had all talked about visiting him, talking again. But we had drifted. And now that last and final link is gone.

True, all of my cousins are still around. But what’s missing is the person who knew my parents growing up. Who could describe for me the way my grandfather would walk to work in the snow, no matter what the danger. Someone who could describe the childhood that formed my father, which in turn, shaped my own life.

There may be one aunt who is still alive. But we don’t know for sure. She disappeared years ago. So my last known link is gone. It seems very strange.

And perhaps old-fashioned. Is it because I am male that a connection to my father’s family is so important? That I feel that I need that in order to prove who I am? Or is it like seeking the source of a stream?

Or is it because my father died when I was so young that anything connected with him is something I grasp at to prove to myself that he did, in fact, exist.

Things like this get me thinking about life. In kind of a sixth grad sort of a way, honestly. Who will come to my funeral? I wonder.

I have my family. So some of them can be counted on, depending on when I die. My kids, of course. A few friends I’ve worked with over the years . . .

Friends. Well, I have one childhood friend I’m in contact with. He helped me install a light last night. Assuming he doesn’t do himself in by ramming his car into a stationary object, as is his habit, he’ll be there. I have some friends on either coast that I know will come. And that’s about it. I have some other friends, but none of those easy relationships (like with the coastals) that just exist. All my other friends require work. I have to work to convince them to communicate, massage and stroke the friendship until it works for them.

So how big is my circle exactly? I’m not sure. If you count miles between each person it’s pretty big. From Bend, Oregon to Boston, Massachusetts.

I do remember once when I had a large circle of friends. Recently found out that they liked me more when I was depressed than when I was happy. Gee, thanks. Glad my welfare is so high on your list of priorities.

It makes me wonder. Should I be more open and outgoing? Or am I satisfied with the status quo, circlewise?

I do kind of dig the status quo. The friends I have are the type that will drink coffee with me at the age of 80 and our families will meet up for vacations. And I’m pretty lucky to have the friends that I have.

Still, makes you wonder. When you’re gone, what sort of impact will you leave? Will you be a tiny blip? Or will you leave a lasting impact?