Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Two tours in Vietnam; the Army Commendation Ribbon, two Bronze Stars, one Meritorious Service Medal, the Air Medal and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. BS in Forestry, BS in Engineering, MA in Journalism and Communications, and a JD. Post military career as a public defender, then as a State's Attorney. Three children, who seem like solid citizens, and seem like fun. A 48 year marriage-- my parents did not attend the wedding, I learned yesterday, because I was newly whelped, just two weeks old.
A full life, and at 70 probably shorter than he'd have asked for, although I don't get the impression he ever asked for much. Every family is its own story, of course, and in this family I am probably no more than a fleeting image in the background in of a home movie of a long-ago birthday party. In the larger family, the metropolitan Carlin family, I suppose, my role is somewhat larger: I have at least the distinction of being the eldest, with whatever honors seniority conveys. My Uncle John, of course, loomed large in family myth and history: his military service took place at that time in my life when the politics were meaningless, and the glamour everything. He figured prominently in my mother's stories about growing up. That was his canoe paddle in the basement: my mother and my Aunt Joan thought it was hilarious that this was on the list of things to bring to Syracuse when he went off to college, and they painted "John C. Carlin, G.W.F." on its shaft-- "Great White Father". It speaks well of his sense of humor, I think, that he kept the inscription.
I could not put a date on when I might have last seen these cousins, but 30 years might not be an overestimate. Funny to think that so much time has passed, but the proof of it was in looking at everyone: I doubt that the cousins would have recognized me if I'd passed them on the street; I would not have recognized them, I'm sure.
When you are a child, the first thing you get tired of is people telling you how much you have grown. When you have children, the thing that astonishes you is how quickly they actually do grow. Lately I have given some thought about how fast my time is slipping by, and at the funeral I couldn't help but notice that the aunts and uncles who had once marveled at my growth had themselves become old. When did that happen?
My lack of any connection beyond the ties of blood did not keep me from the funeral: the fact is, I can be pretty much depended upon to show up at these services. I don't like to, and practice has not perfected my chops-- I doubt that I have ever said the right thing at a wake or a funeral, but I go anyway. I always feel like I am making a gaudy show of whatever grief I have in the face of the true mourners, but I also believe that misery does love company, and not just for the reasons we customarily assume. Company is a welcome distraction, and if I can help in that way, it seems a small enough thing to contribute.
There is little need to go into detail about the service, or the experience: most of the experience was what most of my experience is like: airport, airport, event, airport. I'm not so sure that the companionship of priests in life would be worth the sort of superior eulogy my Uncle received, at least to me, but he had the sort of faith that I have always looked at with envious amazement. Perhaps he had the sort of life that makes faith simple; perhaps having faith made his life simpler. In any event, the Mass was the regular daily Mass that he attended during his illness. He picked the Gospel reading: the punchline about the fig tree from Mark. I like Jesus blasting the tree that wouldn't bear fruit out of season-- he preferred the idea that with belief prayer can accomplish anything. It seemed to me as I sat in church that this was one more time when he probably wasn't asking for much, and that what ever he was praying for had little to do with his own impending death.
I left Florida with the feeling that although I had not known my mother's big brother well, I had a good sense of him from his survivors. It seemed to me that he was someone who was at some pains to surround himself with people that he enjoyed. He must have valued intelligence, and he famously liked a Beefeater martini, but probably the quality that he most favored was loyalty. If these were the qualities that were important to him, I think he probably died happy in the knowledge that he had increased the world's store of these virtues. Seventy is young, I think, before I like to think I will be done, but he accomplished a great deal, and had fun doing it. I'd have to believe that he was pretty satisfied with the way it turned out.
A full life, and at 70 probably shorter than he'd have asked for, although I don't get the impression he ever asked for much. Every family is its own story, of course, and in this family I am probably no more than a fleeting image in the background in of a home movie of a long-ago birthday party. In the larger family, the metropolitan Carlin family, I suppose, my role is somewhat larger: I have at least the distinction of being the eldest, with whatever honors seniority conveys. My Uncle John, of course, loomed large in family myth and history: his military service took place at that time in my life when the politics were meaningless, and the glamour everything. He figured prominently in my mother's stories about growing up. That was his canoe paddle in the basement: my mother and my Aunt Joan thought it was hilarious that this was on the list of things to bring to Syracuse when he went off to college, and they painted "John C. Carlin, G.W.F." on its shaft-- "Great White Father". It speaks well of his sense of humor, I think, that he kept the inscription.
I could not put a date on when I might have last seen these cousins, but 30 years might not be an overestimate. Funny to think that so much time has passed, but the proof of it was in looking at everyone: I doubt that the cousins would have recognized me if I'd passed them on the street; I would not have recognized them, I'm sure.
When you are a child, the first thing you get tired of is people telling you how much you have grown. When you have children, the thing that astonishes you is how quickly they actually do grow. Lately I have given some thought about how fast my time is slipping by, and at the funeral I couldn't help but notice that the aunts and uncles who had once marveled at my growth had themselves become old. When did that happen?
My lack of any connection beyond the ties of blood did not keep me from the funeral: the fact is, I can be pretty much depended upon to show up at these services. I don't like to, and practice has not perfected my chops-- I doubt that I have ever said the right thing at a wake or a funeral, but I go anyway. I always feel like I am making a gaudy show of whatever grief I have in the face of the true mourners, but I also believe that misery does love company, and not just for the reasons we customarily assume. Company is a welcome distraction, and if I can help in that way, it seems a small enough thing to contribute.
There is little need to go into detail about the service, or the experience: most of the experience was what most of my experience is like: airport, airport, event, airport. I'm not so sure that the companionship of priests in life would be worth the sort of superior eulogy my Uncle received, at least to me, but he had the sort of faith that I have always looked at with envious amazement. Perhaps he had the sort of life that makes faith simple; perhaps having faith made his life simpler. In any event, the Mass was the regular daily Mass that he attended during his illness. He picked the Gospel reading: the punchline about the fig tree from Mark. I like Jesus blasting the tree that wouldn't bear fruit out of season-- he preferred the idea that with belief prayer can accomplish anything. It seemed to me as I sat in church that this was one more time when he probably wasn't asking for much, and that what ever he was praying for had little to do with his own impending death.
I left Florida with the feeling that although I had not known my mother's big brother well, I had a good sense of him from his survivors. It seemed to me that he was someone who was at some pains to surround himself with people that he enjoyed. He must have valued intelligence, and he famously liked a Beefeater martini, but probably the quality that he most favored was loyalty. If these were the qualities that were important to him, I think he probably died happy in the knowledge that he had increased the world's store of these virtues. Seventy is young, I think, before I like to think I will be done, but he accomplished a great deal, and had fun doing it. I'd have to believe that he was pretty satisfied with the way it turned out.
// posted by Bill @ 9:47 PM 
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