When I awoke, Grandpa Jim had left – left this world and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I had fallen asleep in a chair beside his bed with my great aunt, Lilly, standing beside me. It must’ve been around 3 a.m. when I nodded off. Prior to that, when Lilly was out in the kitchen, he’d asked for a drink of water and then told me to open his drawer. “Look in the plaid shirt. There should be four envelopes.” I pulled open the drawer and near the bottom was a new plaid shirt, a gift from last Christmas, unopened and covered with cellophane. I pulled back the scotch tape binding the cellophane and reached inside the tissue paper and pulled out four white envelopes of various thicknesses. They were marked Rose, Anne, Gracie, and Lilly. The thickest of the four were for his daughters Rose and Anne. I brought them over to his bed. He beckoned me towards him and in a faltering voice said, “Give them separately to each of them after the funeral. Don’t tell Rose and Anne about the envelopes for Gracie (niece) and Lilly, it’ll only cause hard feelings. They were good to me, too – they need something for their troubles. And you, young man – I think you’re going to do all right without any cash to burn holes in your pockets.”
Aunt Lily came into the room after I put the envelopes inside my shirt. “Can I get you anything Jim?” He looked up at his sister-in-law, shook his head and smiled. He was always in love with her. They both lost their spouses at an early age in the influenza epidemic of 1918. “I knew him too well to marry him. He was full of mischief,” she said.
She had called me that afternoon as I was relishing the enjoyment of that 1962 Labor Day weekend at the house a group of us had rented in the Hamptons. At the time, my mother Rose was on a cruise to South American, and their being separated, Dad was living at the Elks Club in Elmhurst. I rushed back on the first train from West Hampton. When I arrived home she explained, “I’ve buried two husbands. You can tell by their eyes. When they begin to roll up – you know the time is near.” She rested her hand on my shoulder as we watched him struggle with the heat and humidity in our apartment that was not air conditioned.
The next thing I knew, she was griping my shoulder when I awakened. “He died a few minutes ago,” she said. “You better call Quinn’s (funeral home). Oh, my God. He’s gone. He’s gone. I looked at the clock through my tears. It was 6 a.m. I had missed the chance to say goodbye – say goodbye to the person who, up until then, mattered the most in my life.
Aunt Lily came into the room after I put the envelopes inside my shirt. “Can I get you anything Jim?” He looked up at his sister-in-law, shook his head and smiled. He was always in love with her. They both lost their spouses at an early age in the influenza epidemic of 1918. “I knew him too well to marry him. He was full of mischief,” she said.
She had called me that afternoon as I was relishing the enjoyment of that 1962 Labor Day weekend at the house a group of us had rented in the Hamptons. At the time, my mother Rose was on a cruise to South American, and their being separated, Dad was living at the Elks Club in Elmhurst. I rushed back on the first train from West Hampton. When I arrived home she explained, “I’ve buried two husbands. You can tell by their eyes. When they begin to roll up – you know the time is near.” She rested her hand on my shoulder as we watched him struggle with the heat and humidity in our apartment that was not air conditioned.
The next thing I knew, she was griping my shoulder when I awakened. “He died a few minutes ago,” she said. “You better call Quinn’s (funeral home). Oh, my God. He’s gone. He’s gone. I looked at the clock through my tears. It was 6 a.m. I had missed the chance to say goodbye – say goodbye to the person who, up until then, mattered the most in my life.