Rest in peace, Aunt May

May Jarrett Beaver Zink

April 22, 1912 - September 7, 2009

Bob Zink, May J Beaver Zink, and Rev. Jim Grubb on October 2nd, 1993

Aunt May was my great-aunt. My father’s aunt. My Grandma Sara’s sister-in-law… and her next-door neighbor for many years (if adjacent farms can be considered “next door” ). They married brothers, my Aunt May and my Grandma Sara. And they each buried their husband in the early 1970s as both fell victim to melanoma, the same cancer that would eventually claim my father. (PSA: Wear your sunscreen! Seriously!)  They each remarried, and both eventually outlived their second husbands, too.

The photo above was taken at our wedding reception in October, 1993. Aunt May is pictured here with her second husband, Bob, and the Rev. James Grubb, who was one of the ministers who married us. (Rev. Grubb was a high school friend of both my parents, and was Curt’s minister when he was growing up in Williamsport, PA.)

Aunt May almost seemed more like a third grandma to me than a great-aunt. She graduated from Dickinson College in the early  1930s; her youngest son, Dave, followed her there in the mid-1970s. Dave and his wife Lyndy, also a Dickinsonian, opened their home to me in 1990, right after I’d graduated from their alma mater and took my first job in Washington, D.C.  Aunt May thought it was super-cool that I went to Dickinson, too. She was always very supportive of me.

My cousin “Mame” and her friend were high school French students of May’s in the early 1970s. Recently, they visited her at her nursing home. “Bonjour, Madame Beaver, comment t’allez vous?” they said in greeting.  May replied, very deliberately, “Comme Ci, Comme Ça.”

Eternal Rest

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May they rest in peace. Amen.

Requiem Æternam

Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,
et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace. Amen.

 

Charlie’s Angel

 Oh, Farrah.

By the time of tonight’s evening news, your death tribute got bumped in favor of all things Michael Jackson, that clip of the “Thriller” video playing over and over in tribute of his sudden, untimely death.  Brian Williams opened the NBC Nightly News with, well, we were preparing a tribute to Farrah Fawcett, but then Michael Jackson died, and… I mean really, it was pretty crass.

Imagine – two 1970s icons, GONE in one day! And really, three in one week, if you include Ed McMahon, and really, we should.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I loved Michael Jackson – my high school “swing choir” sang and shuffled to a “Thriller” medley – but of the two, Farrah’s passing is the one that made me truly sad, if only for her having suffered and lost a battle with the Big C.

That hair! What girl born in the 1960s didn’t spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, wielding a hot curling iron, trying to achieve that flippy, feathered ‘do?  She had her own Shampoo!!

I had the same bathing suit as the one she wore in THE POSTER.  And you know what it looked like because everyone had the poster. Granted, I was a chubby preteen and didn’t wear it nearly as well as she did. We even had a Farrah Fawcett styling head – it was a bust, really, and you could put “makeup” on her and “do” her hair. We had a Barbie one, too, but I liked Farrah better.

Go ahead and watch this clip – for old time’s sake.

Rest in peace, Farrah.

Twenty-seven years

May 18, 1982 was the day my dad lost his battle with cancer.

This year, the 27th since he died, there are some interesting parallels.  Lawrence Edwin Beaver was 41 years old when he died. It is not lost on me that I am the age now that he was then. He had been married to my mom for about as many years then as I have been married to Curt.  They had two daughters. I was 14 and my sister had just turned 12. My two oldest sons now are 13 and almost 11.

My dad had been farming professionally for about 12 years. He also had a budding political career. He had been tapped to fill the remainder of a county commissioner’s term, then ran for election and won the seat. He would not finish the term to which he was elected.

He was a native son from a well-respected family who married an equally well-respected local girl, and both families had generations of roots in the area.   So you see, his loss left a void not only in our family, but in the entire community. It was NEWS.

Christmas, circa 1970

People don’t know what to say to a kid who’s lost a parent.  When you’re young, people will ask you who your folks are, or what your dad or mom does for a living.  Where I’m from, back then, divorce and transiency were notable.  The safe assumption was that a kid had – and lived with – their mom and their dad. Try this for a very effective conversation-killer:  “Um, my dad…died.” 

Insert awkward pause here.

But what are you going to do when life deals you a bad hand? Curl up in the fetal position and give up? Nope. Not us. We kept right on living.  We had to. Milestone moments were difficult at first and even today remain poignant – learning to drive, proms, holidays, graduations, engagements, weddings, new jobs, births.  After a while, after a bunch of milestones pass, you realize The Anniversary has rolled around the calendar yet another time.

What, again? Already?

Lawrence E. Beaver, age 7 months (1941)

On the night he died, Grandma Sara came back to our house and tucked me into bed… which was weird, because I was FOURTEEN and not in need of tucking in, thank you very much. I remember she said she had buried a husband, but there was no pain like having your child die, even your adult child. It upset the natural order of things, to outlive your offspring.

A few months before she died, about four years ago, I went to visit her. She said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Then she confessed that she always felt as if she may have failed me when my dad died, that perhaps she hadn’t done enough to help me back then.  It was clear that it had been bothering her, and she needed to make it right now that her end was in sight. I found it surprising because I had never considered for a moment that anyone failed me then. I assured her that the whole thing sucked (and that’s the word I used to my 89 year old grandma) for all of us, but we all did the best we could to support each other through the ordeal.

Every great once in a while, all these years later, he shows up in my dreams. He is alive and we talk a little, though I never remember the words we exchange. The sense is that it’s comfortable, that he’s checking in, seeing how things are going in my life. Seeing how I turned out, maybe.

And I can’t help but think how tickled he’d be, having been the father of girls, to be surrounded by four grandsons. He’d love that we used his name and his father’s name for our boys.  I know he would love his sons-in-law. He would be proud of me and all I’ve accomplished.

Today, I’m far removed from the farm. I’m a DC girl now. I have made my life here. I put down roots. But I am who – and what – I am because of my parents. My dad gave me my first 14 years. I’m sure he hated being cheated out of seeing how his kids would turn out. But then again - I kinda think he knows.