The idea of Memorial Day weekend wasn't even on my mind when we decided to travel a month ago. The main point of the trip was to attend my niece's birthday barbecue and see my father. Ok, the real reason was to give myself a break from the vise of what had become my life over the past few months in Philadelphia: relentless, compulsive escapism. Stop paying attention to yourself for a second and lessons and meanings begin to pop out of the smallest things - ironic in and of itself... since you'd think we would pay attention to the big things, but we don't. Those just seem to slip right by us.
I only come 'home' once or twice a year. Rochester may be the place I was born and raised, but it hasn't been my residence for what now has been over half of my life. I moved for good in 1990 and have hardly looked back. Family holidays, weddings and funerals have been the impetus for returns. I know I'm not unique in this, as many people have little to no connection to the place they grew up, especially if they moved around a lot as children. It does at times make me feel odd though, especially considering I come from a large family that is still heavily concentrated in western New York... and my father has lived in the same house now for 51 years.... the house I grew up in. Is there guilt about not coming 'home' more often? Do I feel strange about calling it home (in quotations?) Yeah, I do.
Sleeping in on Friday morning we started the day at noon. No real plans had been made for that day aside from dinner later that evening with my nephew and his fiance, so I suggested a walk. We left the house and headed north. The neighborhood I grew up in is mid-way between downtown Rochester and the lake, just south of the former behemoth of Kodak Park. Kodak Park itself resembles more of a 'Kodak Parking lot' these days, having gone through major shrinkage, lay offs and restructuring. Large stretches of Lake Avenue that used to house buildings I used to know the names and numbers of now stand as empty lots. “There is building 30,” I pointed out to Dave. My father and brother had worked until retirement in the same department on the top floor at the 'point.' Now as Kodak's film business is dwindling it's hard to even imagine how much longer any of those buildings will continue to be productive, let alone stand. It was a beautiful day and we kept heading north past more empty lots, the former bar of a childhood classmate's father, more of what remains of Kodak and onto the grounds of St. Bernard's Seminary. “This is where Pat (my brother-in-law) went to seminary,” I pointed out again to Dave, who was yet to encompass the size of the former school. Wait for it.... wait for it..... “This place is huge!” he finally marveled. The buildings now house luxury condominiums and several office wings. A good purpose I suppose as the whole complex is quite beautiful in its semi-gothic style – an echo of the past glory of the diocesan educational institution of the early 20th century. Continuing along we approached one of our destinations – Riverside Cemetery.
My mother's family plot is prominently placed off the sweeping driveway inside the ornate main gates. 'Prominently placed' didn't help me find the damn thing however as we wandered around for 20 minutes before I finally came across the correct 30 ft. monument. I have to say here that I probably hadn't been to that family plot since I was 7 years old, but I did remember the giant obelisk. “Wow, look at this!,” Dave exclaimed as he busily snapped photos of all the graves and asked questions about cousins, aunts & uncles, as well as great-greats I hadn't thought of (or known of) for 30 or more years. Reading over the twenty plus grave markers stories my mother and aunts used to tell began to float back to me. “This is impressive!” my husband exclaimed as we finally broke from the plot and headed for our next stop. “Let's go visit mom now, “ I said with some reservation. I hadn't been to the mausoleum since the day we interred her 13 years ago. Part of me was feeling guilty, but more of me was wondering if I would even remember how to find her.
Stopping in the main offices for Holy Sepulcher directly across the street I was happy to find a computerized kiosk. “Find Your Loved One” made me think of the movie, “The Loved One” and while I entered the information for my mother I laughed about the strange things that floated through my head. My mother wouldn't have lost an opportunity to poke fun at me for: 1.) not remembering where she was 2.) not having been there in 13 years and 3.) for not bringing her anything. Printed map in hand we set out to what I thought was the correct building. It wasn't. I felt a fourth poke at that point... 4.) not being able to read the map and know we were in the wrong building. Yes we eventually did find her building and her nook. No, I did not feel particularly comforted as I looked up at the cold marble wall that read “Norrene Jane Ellison – 1926-1997” In fact I didn't really feel anything at all. “Why don't we pull the bench over so we can sit down,” Dave suggested. “No, that's ok,” I responded... “we don't have to sit.” We stayed a little while longer but needed to get back to meet up with our dinner plans, so heading out the other side of the cemetery we began walking back to my father's. “Here is where I used to get my haircut when I was little,” I pointed out what used to be Paul's Barber Shop. “And this is the intersection where the accident happened.” I didn't need to explain what I was talking about, Dave knew I was talking about where my mother had been killed. “They were hit so hard the car was thrown up on the front lawn of that house there....” I heard myself saying, all too matter-of-fact. “Oh my god...” was his reply. Yeah, oh my god, did I really need to say that? We walked in silence for a few hundred feet and I looked back at the scene, now once again just a mundane intersection. Tears started to well up in my eyes and I thought, “thank god I have my glasses on, I don't want him to see me crying.” It stopped as quickly as it had started. I'm struck as I write this with a horrible criticism – I've allowed such ridiculous drama in my life recently to elicit so much more emotion than those few seconds of real sorrow and mourning... why wouldn't I at least just let myself feel something real... for me?
We returned home and met up with my nephew David and his fiance Melissa. The rest of the evening was filled with tapas and sangria, a lot of news and family gossip, wedding plans and relocation plans for us. We parted and planned on seeing them again the next day for the big birthday barbecue for my niece Heather. The following day was also filled with catching up, sharing news, meeting new and connecting with old friends and family... as was the next, and the next. We tend to carry on the traditions of my childhood: give us an excuse to gather, eat and drink and we have a full house, whatever the mood.
That weekend had also been planned as the final memorial ceremony for my sister-in-law Annie. Annie died last fall after a year long bout with liver cancer. Her final wishes were to have her ashes scattered along the pond near the house she lived in with her husband Steve. It was a beautiful day... hot (and I forgot to wear sunscreen). The casual gathering of friends and family was a perfect testament to who she was and what she would have wanted: friends coming together not so much in sadness, but in support of one another, remembering the happiness of her life. It's always difficult for me to see people crying, especially friends and relatives. There were a lot of hoarse whispers, along with wet eyes among the forty plus attendants. To have waited seven months to have the final memorial must have been hard on her husband and her two daughters, but as I thought of that I was reminded of my reaction two days before simply returning to where my mother had died... some things just don't fade, no matter how you effectively deal with them.
Our final day in Rochester had no plans at all, but as I've learned in recent years, those are guaranteed to be the busiest. Fifteen of us wound up gathering at my father's house for take-out Thai food, beer and a lot more catching up and family chatter. Poor dad didn't know what was going on when he returned from a baseball game with my brother Jym. I think he was glad to see everyone, at least he pretended if he wasn't. The night saw us migrating to my brother's for one final series of euchre games (yeah, I know, what the hell is euchre? … if you need to ask, you don't need to know)
Returning to Philadelphia tonight a very sad mood descended on me. I've always felt a comfort in seeing the skyline as I've ridden over the Girard Avenue bridge on the train. 'Home' would always silently come to mind either driving or riding past Boathouse Row and the Art Museum. Maybe it was simply a return of the sick feeling I had been fighting before I left Philly last week... or maybe it was a realization on my part that I would be leaving this place soon. But after chatting with a good friend in Michigan who always has a way of bringing me around... and posting this story, I feel remarkably hopeful. Life bombards us with either crap or roses. And there are always things that will keep us going through it all... those things are generally friends and family. Jobs, relationships, other peoples' lives... all rise to prominence and/or fall by the wayside in time and there is no way to prevent or preserve any one thing forever. The past two weeks will stick with me for many reasons as I move forward, but the small things that surfaced for me on a long weekend trip 'home' will definitely stay with me much, much longer. Enjoy it while you have it, then remember it fondly after it's gone.
