The End of an Era

It was my first wake in a long time. The last of my father’s uncles, Uncle Bill, had passed away, and the phrase that kept floating around the room was that it was the end of an era.

When I walked into the funeral parlor, the local chapter of the VFW was playing taps from a small stereo. There were several distant relatives who recognized me from our Christmas card. They called me “Tommy’s son,” said I had gotten “so big,” held my hand and told me my great uncle had loved me very much. I felt embarrassed asking my mom for their names over and over again.

I spent a few minutes kneeling before my uncle’s open casket, saying prayers and looking at the mementos inside—pictures of his wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, prayer cards, rosary beads, and a small bottle of his favorite Scotch. There were photographs all around the room, a mix of black and white and color which told the story of my uncle’s life. The picture that struck me the most was of my great-grandparents and their children and children’s spouses sitting together around a table. I recognized my grandfather and my uncle Bill, as well as the grandmother who died when my dad was nine. They lived in a world very different from mine; now all but one is dead.

Family gatherings and old photographs remind me of how the O’Fox clan, from County Meath in Ireland, made their way across the Atlantic over a hundred and thirty years ago to settle in New York. My great-grandfather, John Fox (his family having dropped the O), manned the railroad switches at Jamacia, Queens, and with his wife raised nine kids through two world wars and a great depression. My grandfather, Joe Fox, came home from fixing airplanes in Florida during World War II to find his dad had had both legs amputated because of an infection. He had to lift his father out of the wheelchair and put him into the car to take him home.

One of the photographs is of Uncle Bill with his shirt off from when he was serving in the Philippines during World War II. There’s one with Uncle Bill and my grandfather at the post office where they worked together, and I remember the story about how Uncle Bill took a drink at every house on his route one Christmas and got so drunk my grandfather had to pick him up before he finished delivering the mail. Uncle Bill could never turn down a glass of Scotch.

The only thing separating these photographs from history books and documentaries on public television is that it’s my family. These black and white pictures are the only remaining window into a bygone era. After the funeral, my cousin shows me pictures of his seven- month- old daughter on his Blackberry, and I am in awe of how far humanity has come technologically, and how much we’ve lost because of it.

My grandparents’ generation was that “new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage” that John F. Kennedy was referring to in his inaugural address.

Barack Obama reminds us that “we are the keepers of this legacy.” But what will they say about me, tempered by so little and disciplined by even less? Even with 9/11 carved into my brain, it’s different. I still can’t help but think that the life I have led has been so much easier than that of my grandparents, and when faced with similar trials, how am I supposed to show similar strength?

My grandparents lived in a time when the world was still big and the towns they lived in--places like Levittown and Hicksville—were small. Back then, the whole family lived close enough to have Sunday dinner. Now I have cousins in Virginia and Chicago who I rarely see at holidays. Sure we have the technology to stay in touch, but the word cousin doesn’t even mean the same thing in my family. My dad tells me about how my grandfather introduced his brother to his girlfriend’s sister and when the kids of both couples arrived, he called them “double first cousins.”

And I can’t imagine, short of nuclear war, being asked to sacrifice what my grandfather Joe and his brother Bill did for this country, and I’m not sure I would volunteer on my own. It’s amazing to think that I’m around the same age as Bill was when he was drafted, as my Uncle Larry was when he was almost drafted to go to Vietnam. I can thank and honor those men who have served, see that service made them tough, but I feel like I’m made of different stuff. It’s the difference between U. S. Steel and Made in China. One is taken from the earth , forged in fire, and made strong enough to be the foundation for great buildings; the other is modern, can bend and melt, and can be put to so many different uses, but you wouldn’t build with it. It’s just not the same.

Now, phrases like “the world before 9/11” have become synonymous with clichés like “the good old days” and “a simpler time” and as we look ahead at the challenges we face everything looks simpler. Life is about to get harder, and everyday the headlines we read are history in the making. The word “depression” get’s thrown around like we know what we’re talking about, but we haven’t lived through it, even though we can take comfort in the fact that these people who came before us made it through hard times. But the fear comes back when I realize that I may not have learned anything at all.

My cousin Jeananne said during her eulogy that as my Uncle Bill got closer to death, he started to talk more and more about his experiences during the war. Someone told her it was because that other than death, that was the greatest unknown he’d ever faced. And that’s why I talk about him here, because his death has made me realize that I am on the brink of my own unknown and I want to look back to him for help. But it’s more than fear of the unknown, its fear of the unprepared, the untested, the inadequate—me. There’s so much to learn from "the greatest generation", and as a result so much that could be forgotten. There are just some things that we can’t afford to forget right now. The words we hear are “hope” and “responsibility” but I don’t think I truly understand “struggle,” “character,” and “sacrifice.”

After the burial I sat in a room with the last of the Fox clan. My mom made the point that now my Dad’s older brother, Larry, is the new patriarch, and it’s only him, his four sons, my dad, my younger brother, and I who hold on to the family name. To think that I am the last, best hope for my family, that I am supposed to carry a name that has made it across oceans, over obstacles, through hardships and history, I feel as though it’s a task I am not ready for, a torch that I cannot wield. I hope Uncle Bill asked the same questions when he got on that plane to the Philippines, and that I will be able to rise to the challenges that come with growing up. And it makes me wonder: Can we make the world a better place for our children, like our ancestors did for us? Or will history say otherwise?

**Note--This essay is to appear in the next issue of Monkeys with Typewriters, and because I'm lazy, and it's late, and I didn't have solid idea for today, I posted this. Enjoy.