Because we all live so far apart, through the years, it was impossible to consider that we would have annual family reunions and everyone stay in touch. However, it was of great importance to my mother that I, as an only child, have a sense of “belonging to a large family.” After all, she grew up as one of eight siblings, the first five closest in age, and the others coming along during their teen years.
I was five years old when I went to St. Louis for the first Christmas at my grandparents’ home. I met five of my cousins that week, three brothers and a brother and a sister, and it was amazing to imagine that this only child was suddenly surrounded by “family.” Two years later I was back in St. Louis for the funeral of my grandfather. There were some more cousins there in addition to the ones I’d met, but frankly, it was a somber time. I now had to process a loss of a grandfather I barely knew together with meeting more people who were “my family” I barely knew.
Just as soon as I had family, it seemed I was losing them. I wasn’t ready for loss. But there was Minor, three years older than me, who sensed that I was alone out on an island of silence, wondering what was happening around me. He told me not to worry, that everything would be alright. He enlisted his next oldest brother, Donald, in joining him in teaching me how to play pool, in the basement of the family house. I found myself comforted, and lots of conversation ensued. Soon, my sorrow turned to a calm sense of “everything is going to be okay.” Minor sensed my pain and stepped up, with Donald, to keep me and their youngest brother Steve, so busy we didn’t have time to hurt. That was Minor, taking care.
The next time we were together was the death of their mother, their dad’s second wife, who had long battled a debilitating illness. We went back to St. Louis for the funeral and now I was a bit older. The boys hugged me when they saw me and somehow I found myself saying to them, “It’s going to be alright.” Minor, the oldest, was the strongest. I hurt most for them because their lives to that point had been anything but easy. From the time they were about eight years old and younger, they knew their dad was working hard at his day job and then when he came home, he cared for their mom.
Minor knew about all the medicines his mom took, helped cook, all the boys cleaned the house, and they managed to do well in school and even found time to play baseball. They stayed “out of trouble” because they knew everyone already had enough on their plates. They essentially raised themselves. As soon as Minor could mow the lawn he did. Soon, Donald was right there with him, and they started a lawnmowing business. Steve joined as soon as he was able. They worked all over the neighborhood and did well for themselves. They wanted to do something to help make a difference, realizing how hard times were.
Over the years, the brothers excelled at high school baseball, all of them. Minor attended all the games he could, and then their mother died. We went back to St. Louis, Mom and I, because that’s what you did for family. You showed up. You hugged and you cried together. My cousins were brave. My uncle’s heart was broken and it wasn’t easy, but still the brothers held it together, beautifully, because of Minor’s example. “Everything is going to be okay.” There in an act of superhuman strength, was Minor comforting his brothers, and now me. I believed him.
By the time Minor was close to finishing high school, he was offered a tryout with the St. Louis Cardinals. He was a power hitter, to be sure, and although he didn’t make the cut, it’s not often a childhood dream come true to just have the chance to try out. He took the disappointment well. After all, it’s what he did. Kept it inside for reassurance for the ones who looked to him for leadership; everyone assumed without a thought that everything was going to be okay. That was Minor. He bounced back.
He was a natural at math; everything came to him so easily; in fact, all three brothers were gifted in math. Still are today. Minor moved up in his job at the bank, from teller to eventually working in the vault. Eventually he signed up to enter the U.S. Navy. His dad had entered the Navy during wartime of WWII, and while a wartime experience was anything but easy for his dad, perhaps he had always wanted to travel and the Navy was one way to see the world, or at least it was what he hoped it would be. Donald and Steve drove to Texas while I was in college for a great visit and Minor wanted to go to Florida on his vacation, so he did. He needed a chance to do something for himself than give away every last minute “for family’s sake.” I’m glad he did.
The next gathering time was when my Grandmother passed away. Does this sound familiar? The only time many families “should be close” is the only time they seem to be—during periods of loss and sorrow. I have always loved families who gather together each year for food, fellowship, and remembrances of childhood. They just pick up where they left off. Laughter usually abounds, and hugs flow freely.
The three brothers were married not long thereafter; two of them are nearing their 50th annivesaries. I was still in school but we hoped to do a better job of getting together. Occasional phone calls helped and I’ll never forget that when I finished college, the first card that came was from Minor. He wrote me a four-page letter about how proud he was of me for finishing college. He caught me up on family news and frankly, I will never forget it because I felt like I really did have family, distance notwithstanding. I still have that letter.
His wife became pregnant with their first son, Seth, during his service and sadly, it was discovered that their little one was born with cerebral palsy. The young couple bravely tried to learn what to do and how to cope with the disease and Minor did his exercises with his little one every day. Ultimately, Seth only lived two years. Minor was devastated beyond any other passing in his life before. The grief had been building for years, no doubt. But who’s to say? I’m no professional. He received a medical discharge from the Navy and then set about trying to find life after when all his plans were crushed.
Minor and Debi gave birth to another son, Sean Michael, a few years later, and as soon as he could comprehend it, he knew he had an older brother but one who was no longer here on earth, a fairly daunting fact to process when you’re a little guy, but he followed the tradition of appearing stoic. When Minor and Debi divorced, times were not easy, but Minor was comfortable being a dad with his buddy Sean, but he was not quick to discipline him at first, as he loved him so much. He just didn’t want to lose him.
When Sean was four, Minor drove them down to “Texas” to see Aunt Marguerite and Dawn. Into the room walks this little towheaded blonde with the buzz cut, his steely blue eyes surveying his surroundings and wondering who Aunt Marguerite was and why Minor loved her. Mom assessed the little fellow’s disposition toward mischief and waited to see how things played out. Sean was brilliant and Minor was so proud. He kept addressing him as “Dad Junior,” because he’d always heard his mom refer to him as “Junior,” the family nickname for the eldest and namesake of their dad.
Mom decided he needed to show his dad more respect, and let him know that he should address his father as “Dad,” although it took a day or two for him to even think about whether he was going to. Meanwhile, Sean presented with a list of things he did and didn’t like about Houston. Most of all, he didn’t like being told what to do. We took them to some of the outdoor Houston attractions and restaurants, Minor and Sean enjoyed outdoor Houston life and it wasn’t long before Sean called Minor “Dad,” just Dad. Progress!
It was to be Easter weekend, so Mom and Minor took Sean shopping for some new Spring and Summer clothes. The “boys” looked dapper in their new outfits and Minor was proud of how Sean was growing up. Sean’s Mom had gotten him a contemporary haircut—a buzz cut, but he had a small rat tail at the back of his neck, gently indicating we might just have a tad of a rebel in the making.
At bathtime, we’d gotten Sean some Mr. Bubble bubblebath and a cool Mr. Bubble shampoo…he was patient as Minor and Mom were about to shampoo his head but he blurted out, “I don’t want any of that stuff on my head,” and both of them burst out laughing. His candor and self-awareness was refreshing. We took them to Dos Pesos Café for an authentic Mexican meal. Sean really liked the queso but when he reached for the salsa to try it, after one bite of the spicy stuff said, very loudly, “Yuck, I hate that stuff.” We laughed and quickly forgot about it as he returned to his queso.
Easter Sunday came and the four of us went to my Episcopal church in Galleria where I’d been living. On the drive over we prepared Sean for the process of communion where he would go up to the railing with us and cross his arms as he knelt at the altar and the priest would give him a blessing by placing his hand on his head as he went down the row.
Minor reminded him of what Aunt Marguerite had said right before we exited our pew to make the way to the front and Sean folded his little hands and approached the altar. Somewhere between seeing the adults around him open their hands and place them palms up as the priest and the communion assistant approached, the plan changed. Sean was kneeling at the altar, between his dad and my Mom, and I was to the right of my Mom. I saw what was coming, but it seemed to play out in slow motion. As I extended my hands palm forward and received the communion wafer, then Mom did, and then…Sean unfolded his hands and the communion assistant placed a wafer into Sean’s hands. Uh oh!
Taking his cue from seeing us place the wafers in our mouths, Sean followed suit. Apparently he didn’t like the taste. I saw the look come over his face and I knew what was about to follow. He said (loudly), “Yuck, I hate thaa-at!” and just as soon as that happened, both Mom and Minor clamped their free hands over Sean’s mouth as they saw the priest gently rocking from laughter (apparently he had grandchildren).
After the chalice went down the row, and we exited back to the congregation, I happened to notice two men standing near the wall, wearing trenchcoats, in mid spring. They had quiet smiles on their faces and seemed amused…remembering that this, too, was the home church of our 41st U.S. President and his family and as it was Easter, they were back in town and the trenchcoats were being worn by the Secret Service.
My eyes scanned that row as I made my way back to my seat and I saw the President and his wife smiling broadly, in a most understanding fashion. They had grandchildren, too, and could empathize. We were all relieved to make our way back to anonymity in the pews. Until this day, Sean never knew who else was there in church with us. So far, it has been my favorite Easter memory.
Little Sean grew up into a little guy playing t-ball and soccer and moved into other sports, and Minor was able to watch him, proudly. Yet, Sean's life was anything but easy; growing up these days is a challenge on its own, much less considering extraneous factors. He was born into a family that was strong on love but short on health. Minor lost his own Mom pretty early in his life and then as Sean was growing up, he saw his own Dad acting as a caregiver to his grandfather.
After Minor Sr. passed away, the family collected again together in grief to pay final respects for the loss of a beloved father and grandfather. Still, Sean was too young to know how to process loss, but he’d certainly sustained enough to last a lifetime. Sorrow just seemed to be in the air and seeing his own dad go through different emotions at different times could not have been easy. Both of them tried but they both had a touch of stubborness in them that made them almost identical in that fashion.
After the loss of his dad, Minor Jr. drove Sean back to Texas. This time they seemed to be doing really well together, and Sean spoke respectfully to his Dad. This time I was in College Station and working on campus. I took him to work with me one morning and my Dean came down the hall. I wasn’t sure “which” Sean would show up that day. But of course. My Dean extended his hand to Sean when I introduced them and Sean wasn’t having any of it. He didn’t shake his hand nor speak. I said, “Sean, the Dean spoke to you. Say “It’s nice to meet you, too.” Sean looked at me, clenched his lips together, folded his arms and shook his head “no.” I shook my head too and said, “Sorry, boss, he didn’t come with an instruction manual.”
The Dean laughed and said “No worries, I’m one of 7 and we all have grandkids. It’s just a phase.” Before I was ready to lecture him, my office colleague, Portia, walked up and saved the day. She said, “Cowabunga” as she stared at him. He stared back, unfolded his arms and said, “Cowabunga, Dude” as he gave her a high five. Befuddled, I looked at Portia as she explained to the Dean and me, “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I speak Kid.” Laughter followed.
And before I could ask who they were (remember a day before Google existed?), he listed all four of them for me, expecting that I would commit their names to memory. Yes, Sean, I still remember them. Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael--the Renaissance artists). The info came in handy 30 years later when I was in a discussion with my own adoptive grandson, age 6. I've had to learn a lot more superhero names these past years but one never relinquishes the joy of being taught by someone under the age of 12.
Another memory was taking Minor to a Texas Aggie baseball game, which I thought he’d love. He did. The tickets I’d been gifted found us seated next to my boss, Ken, who was a retired Air Force Colonel. He and Minor began discussing the game and I heard Ken ask him where he lived and what he did. He said, “I’m from St. Louis and I’m a Disabled American Veteran.” Ken, in a heavenly moment, knew exactly what to say, “God bless you, Son, and thank you for your service.” Minor smiled and they shook hands. I hid my tears that day.
Minor, the invincible, the hero, the cape-wearing strength of the family had no difficulty identifying with a medical condition that rendered him “disabled.” Life, illness, loss, sorrow, and grief had overtaken his fresh, sharp mind and he needed others to make the big decisions for him in life. He accepted the help and guidance of his younger brothers and sisters-in-law as graciously as one could expect.
For the past 30 years, Minor has lived geographically between the two brothers, in his own home, because crowded living communities didn’t give him a choice of when or if he could be alone, which was vital to his peace of mind at times. He was included in all the family activities and celebrations, and he also really enjoyed hosting high school friends and family at backyard BBQs. He'd call to tell me he'd cleaned his house thoroughly and Steve and Brenda had taken him grocery shopping to entertain and stocked the place with burgers, chips, sodas, and beer.
Those times made it possible for cousins to visit and stay close and he was good at mowing his own yard in the rural part of the city he lived in. Baseball season (the Cardinals) was always eagerly anticipated. Donald and Becky had him over to their home frequently and the brothers were happiest when all three of them were together. The devotion the three of them shared all of their lives is indescribable and it is a more powerful bond than any other I've seen to compare. They loved being with their older sister and family from Minor's first marriage when times presented the gatherings.
Six years ago, one of my precious “boys” who’d grown up across the street from me graduated from high school and enlisted in the Navy with a six-month wait before deployment. He was going out on his own to see the world and find his place in it. I wanted to give him a gift but what? Then it came to me. Minor had enlisted in the Navy, yes many years ago. I called Minor and asked him if he wouldn’t mind writing my neighbor about what it was like for him, one of three brothers in the house (also with an older sister) who broke away to find a path.
He started writing the minute we hung up the phone and within three days I had a thick envelope with a magnificent handwritten note for my new sailor. He did a beautiful job of writing an honest, informative, and solid explanation of enlisted life. Minor was telling my young neighbor that, in essence, everything would be alright. But, of course. He’d been comforting all of us all of our lives. Minor was the strong one, the one everyone looked to for answers, even after you might think he didn’t have any left to give. He did.
Every family faces difficulties and challenges. Most of them happen with no one writing about them because frankly, it’s a personal battle and everyone does the best they can. The only way I know how to process my personal grief is to write and to tell the story of a life well lived, and then I find peace. Yet, it’s hard for me to see this as the end of Minor’s life. Today is his birthday and he died two weeks shy of his 69th birthday.
Yes, it's an ending. But, it’s really the beginning of his newly restored mind, body, and spirit. Today he’s reunited with his mother and father, and with his first son, Seth, that he’d waited so many years to see. He lived long enough to see his son, Sean, grown up with a son of his own, a fine young man whom any Dad could be proud of.
What he has that is the greatest treasure was a lifetime of knowing his Dad, as best as anyone could, as a loving, caring, devoted father. Not every day could he say “yes” to everything Sean wanted, but when he said, “no,” he did what he knew to be in his best interests. Sean is not alone in this world. He has loving uncles, cousins, and “family” galore, but most of all, he has the best of his father in him. His heart is his best gift.
Minor lived long enough to watch his son, Sean, grow up and find his way around love, and to have a son in his own life--a young lookalike named Dylan, whose presence in their lives assured the continuation of his father’s line, two generations past ours, joining the three other sons and daughters who are his cousins.
My aunt was sweet enough to send pictures of the graveside military honors that were held for Minor:
Another cousin gifted me with a picture of two generations of “the boys” on Minor’s immediate family’s side. Not all of them were together, of course, but there was a strong contingency.
Going forward, Sean will never feel a day in the future where he feels alone, because there will always be someone in his family nearby to him. He will work hard to preserve the family “ties” and he will remember that he is, and was, forever loved.
