My uncle used to tell me that the one thing he missed about living in the Northeast was the coming of Spring. In fact, it was the blooming of the forsythia in particular that he pined for in March and April – when he would see the bright yellow forsythia hedges, he’d know that warmer weather was on its way, and he’d instantly feel more hopeful.
If you knew him, you’d know that hopeful was not a word he would use to describe himself. Too fluffy. He prided himself on his stoicism. He’d advise us to expect the worst, so when it happened, we weren’t surprised; and when it didn’t, we could be pleased. I suppose that is one way to protect oneself from the many and varied disappointments in life – and to remain insulated from the fallout. “Prepare for the worst and hope for the best,” he would say.
I like to think that he softened as he aged. Or as we, his children, matured. Maybe a little of both. It was in his last decade or so when I would get these little tidbits, like his penchant for forsythia, from him. Maybe by then it was easier to take the long view; to enjoy beauty. He once told me he had forgotten all the things I had done as a teenager that used to upset him; he could only remember the moments of pride – and one day, when my own children were grown, I’d forget all those things that were driving me crazy, too. In reality, only those stand-out moments mattered anyway.
He was the man who stood in and stood up for me for many meaningful moments. He and I spoke once a week, without fail, from the time I was a college student. I rarely shared bad news or complaints and kept problems to myself unless I had no choice but to ask for his help. I loved talking to him about the interesting or funny things the kids had been doing, what was going on at work, updates on the rest of the family. He would tell me about the hummingbirds that visited his back garden in Vermont. A great meal at a local restaurant. The really fabulous bottle of wine. Or how much he loved the chocolate covered Oreos I sent him.
We would tell one another the bad news after it was over – never while the other could take any action about it. It is a family trait, one passed down through the generations. If he had been ill or hospitalized, I would hear about it later. If Nan was ill, we would learn about it after the fact. Hell, if it could be avoided, he wouldn’t tell me when people died! My cousins and I are just as bad. Someone diagnosed with cancer? Don’t say anything until after surgical resection. Personal issues? No need to involve anyone until the issue is resolved. I don’t think any of us were prepared for his death – I know I wasn’t – and I clung to the story of him returning to good health until the very end. So much for being prepared for the worst.
When he was alive, I’d send him pictures of the forsythia in bloom in my backyard in New Jersey. It was a thing that I did every March. One of the little things that bound us together, like the Thanksgiving morning calls with the menu rundown. I still take pictures of the forsythia every March in his memory, and have to remind myself that it is a text I couldn’t actually send.
Today, I took this photo of the forsythia in bloom, channeling his spirit, and I immediately felt a little more hopeful.
Warmer weather is coming.
💗
I miss him more tha I ever thought I would. He was such a force. I don't think I knew exactly how much I loved him until after he was gone. We are his living legacy.
This made me cry. Every word is true. I’m so glad you have good memories of him. I miss him everyday. BTW- you are a real Writer -capital W. You should put all these musings together and publish them. It would be a best seller!!!