Left to my own devices

I turned 49 twelve days ago. A few weeks before that, I experienced something new: Talking about my genetics, with professionals. As friends and regular readers of the blog know, my dad has been dead for a long time. He died in 1997 at the age of 52 from pancreatic cancer. Not a good way to go. Ever since then, I've been doing a sort of mortal arithmetic in my head. Even at his funeral, as I was sitting there watching the American flag being folded and then handed to my father's widow and their 2-year-old son, the thought was being tossed around in my mind of how, 'Okay, I'm 21. Dad was 52 when he died. That means I could have another 31 years left? Maybe?' At the time, 31 years sounded like a good, long while. I'm here to tell you that it went by quickly. And so, as I continued to near the age where my dad received his diagnosis (he was 51), I began talking with my primary care physician (PCP) about whether or not I should have some kind of genetic testing don...

"I love the past, 'cause I hate suspense." - Diane Young, by Vampire Weekend The interesting thing about being alive is that we know what's come before, but not what will be. Well, that isn't the only interesting thing, obviously, but it's an aspect of existence that fascinates me. Put another way, we know the past, but never the future. And, there will always be a future -- something epochal would have to occur for that to change. I've been ruminating on the aforementioned reality somewhat often during this pandemic. Additionally, I've considered the importance of the shared experiences we have, both en masse and amongst our smaller, more tightly-knit sub-groups (friends, family, that sort of thing). It is a significant factor to know our history, but there's nothing quite like going through a major event at the same time as those we know, those fellow humans who mean something special to us.

To some, knowing their heritage is of paramount importance. The countries their ancestors came from is knowledge that simply must be known. For those like Alice Collins Plebuch, learning that their ancestry has a different narrative than they'd previously assumed is earth-shattering. Heck, they've written an article about it. Me? I'm a mutt, and that's fine. I read the piece about Plebuch's world being turned upside down by her DNA results, so of course I have some interest in all this. I guess it just doesn't matter to me all that much where my genetic predecessors came from. Evolutionary science is of interest, but not recent ancestry, such as where my great-great-great-grandparents were from. And, if I did find out such information, I would like to think it wouldn't upset me like it did Plebuch:

Periodically my mom will give me some mementos, heirlooms, documents and photographs of our family history. I've enjoyed receiving them, though with more than a pinch of wistfulness included. The handing-down of treasured familial possessions is always a bit of rite of passage, a quiet signifier of aging and our own mortality. The keepsakes are wanted, yet there is almost the urge to reject what their receipt symbolizes. It occurred to me that there is another, even more personal, reason that I grow rueful whenever the subject of fondly-held items arises. I have no children to leave anything to. Now, admittedly, that is perhaps the most selfish reason to have a child, but then it can be argued that people have children for a variety of reasons. Some wish to carry-on their lineage, others want another human to love and care for. A few didn't expect to have a child, and are making their best go of it. So on and so forth.

I attended two weddings this summer. The first was in Gatlinburg, Tennessee (though Ashley & spent most of our time in nearby Pigeon Forge). The second wedding was in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. The Tennessee event took place at a pavilion in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, while in Arkansas the reception was at the Crescent Hotel (which likes to bill itself as the World's Most Haunted Hotel). These were nice get-a-ways, and I have fond memories of the weekends. What occurs to me about the aforementioned weekends is that some of their importance rests upon their timing, and who was there, not just in the destinations, themselves. I quite liked Eureka Springs, and wouldn't mind going back at some point, though it will undoubtedly be a different experience. Neither Ashley's dad (who visited us while we were there) nor anyone from the wedding party will be present. The space will be the same, but the time will not. That can make all the difference.

You all cross my mind, perhaps more often than the dead really should. You are no longer living, breathing, thinking entities, though maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the stories of so many religions across the millennia are true: maybe you all still exist somewhere, perhaps not alive (in the sense that we know it), but still cognizant of some form of reality? All I know for sure is that I miss you and, for many of you, I feel like you were gone too soon. Along with missing you is, in some cases, a twinge of guilt. For those who took their own lives I wonder, "Could I have done more?"  For those who passed away naturally I ask, "Did I convey to you how much you were appreciated?" Questions with unknowable answers. That could be why they resurface far too often.

My uncle Buster died on December 6th. While mom tried to jog my memory about meeting him at least once, I have no memory of the man. Marion "Buster" Snyder was someone I just heard her talk about sometimes. It's the same for her dad's side of the family. I remember meeting them once, after grandfather Dean Snyder had passed away, but the memory -- now some 20+ year ago -- is a foggy one. When mom and I went to Buster's visitation on the cold night of December 11th, driving from Champaign to her hometown of Clinton, we weren't quite sure what to expect. After mom was born, Dean and my grandmother (Gummy) broke up and Dean started over with a new family with the lovely Hazel, comprised of several children who are my mother's half-siblings, Buster among them. Mom hadn't been extremely close with the family, so we approached the visitation with some trepidation.