I woke up this morning to my son telling me, "Mom, you need to call Pap. One of your cousins died." I called my Dad to find out that my cousin, "John" (not his real name for family privacy reasons), had passed away on the operating table during open heart surgery in some hospital in the Houston area sometime over the last few days. He said that an unknown man had called "John's" elderly stepmother with this information and that "John" had given his stepmother's name and phone number as contact and next of kin information. This unknown stranger advised "John's" stepmother that some family member needed to contact the hospital as the administrative staff there was planning to have "John's" body laid to rest in Potter's Field somewhere in the Houston area. "John" was one of the lost and forgotten.
"John" was four years and three months older than I am. His Mom, my aunt, passed away from heart disease at age 49, when I was in junior high school and "John" was in high school. His widowed father remarried approximately two years later and moved into his new wife's home in a small coal mining town approximately two hours away from the suburbs of Pittsburgh, where "John", his two sisters and I grew up. At this time, "John's" older sister, by thirteen years, was already married with children of her own and living the the suburbs of Detroit. My uncle's life with his new wife left "John", now a year out of high school and his sister, "MA", a year older than me and now a junior in high school, to live alone in the house they'd grown up in with my uncle and late aunt.
Growing up, I was never really close with "John". As a child, when we'd visit at my aunt and uncle's house, I'd play with "MA" and we'd have a great time. "John" was always nice enough, but there was always something about him that rubbed me wrong. He was very slight as a child and was granted special privileges and special treatment that seemed very unfair. "John" never had to mow the lawn because he was too fragile, "John" couldn't have a paper route because he was too weak to carry papers. Long story short, correctly or incorrectly, I saw "John" as being spoiled.
By the time I was in junior high, my aunt's heart problems had her in and out of the hospital and "John" and "MA" were raising themselves and doing whatever suited them. "John" had been left behind a year and was a year ahead of "MA" in school, both of them in high school. "MA" and I weren't close any more as with her parents both being absent so often due to her Mom's failing heart, her life revolved around working and dating.
By this time, "John" was one of the older crowd of "Kool Kids" whose reputation preceded him wherever he went. He knew how to get whatever drug of choice was currently in fashion and became known by the "Kool Kids" as "The Scholar." At this time, the lives they lived were as different from mine as oil and water. My parents wielded as much power and control over my life as they could force on me. By this time, "John" and "MA" viewed me as a nerd and completely uncool; someone to be devoutly ignored.
During the times my aunt wasn't hospitalized, my parents and I would visit at my aunt and uncle's home. In our family, the adults visited and the "kids" were expected to entertain themselves either outside or somewhere that the adults weren't. By this time, with my current status in "John" and "MA's" eyes, I came to dread these visits. With "MA" being involved with working and the dating/club scene, there were times I was left alone to spend time with "John", if he was home. As I said, I was in junior high at this time and coming into my own. My body had begun maturing in ways I found horribly embarrassing and mortifying and more times that I can count, I found myself wishing I could become invisible.
It was then that, suddenly, "John" showed a new-found interest in me. And I was thrilled not to have to sit alone and entertain myself while my parents visited with my aunt and uncle. John introduced me to the background of the music that impacted my life and the people who influenced it. He introduced me to the peace movement and some of the activists of the era. He opened up a world of books and movies that influenced me profoundly, including "Easy Rider." I came to look forward to the infrequent visits at my aunt and uncle’s home and I came to trust "John" implicitly and looked up to him without measure, hanging onto all the knowledge he was imparting on me with adulation and volumes of gratitude.
Then one evening, sitting in his room, talking and listening to Blues Breakers With Eric Clapton, "John" taught me some things that weren’t meant to be taught by a first cousin. Lessons that should’ve been learned from the sweetness of discovering what first/new love could be about. While "John" didn’t destroy my virtue, "John" did destroy my innocence. And I walked out of his bedroom devastated and forever changed, innocence lost.
From that day on, I avoided any contact at all with "John". I tried to find any and every excuse I could to not go along with my parents to visit at my aunt and uncle’s and when those excuses wouldn’t present themselves and I’d have to go along, I’d find ways of entertaining myself, even if it meant sitting alone in front of a blank TV screen.
Not long afterward, my aunt passed away and, nearly five years after my uncle’s remarriage, he did as well. Over the years, I was told that "John" had gotten deeply involved with drugs off and on and would, during these periods, alienate himself completely from his sisters and remaining relatives, namely my father, who is his only other family member aside from me and three other cousins.
Finally, everyone lost contact with "John" and, only occasionally, something would filter through the family about "John’s" life and how he was doing. I understand that he’d been in and out of rehab several times and married a girl he’d met at a halfway house. They eventually divorced and, for a time, he lived with his stepmother. This was approximately eight years ago. From this point on, the stories are sketchy about "John's" goings on and whereabouts.
Pan forward to today and now "John’s" dead. And I’m not sure how I’m suppose to feel. My Dad tells me that "John’s" oldest sister contacted him last night to ask if "John"s" body could be interred in a single remaining family plot that no one’s claimed. She told my Dad that she didn’t know if she was even going to notify her sister of "John’s" death. They’re suppose to ship his body back to our hometown, some 2,000 miles away, to be prepared for burial. There’ll be no viewing or visitation and no memorial service.
Please forgive my scattered blather. I’m a little screwed up about this. I wanted to write some type of memorial or tribute for "John", but I’m having a hard time with this. I’m grateful to "John" for everything he taught me about the roots of the music and musicians that I love. I’m grateful to him for teaching me about peace activism and many of the people who influenced it. Aside from these things, I’ve got nothing else positive to say about "John", except that I hope he’s at peace. But another part of me wants to scream in outrage for all that he stripped me of and the baggage he doomed me to carry for the rest of my life.
(It’s strange things like this happen and can invoke demons from one’s past to rear their ugly heads up out of the muck and slime of long-forgotten memories and make you address things that you thought you’d buried long ago.)
