Death

I found out this morning a cousin of mine died this weekend of brain cancer.

He had just turned 69. He was the oldest cousin in the family, I am the youngest. My mom was 6 when he was born, so they were like siblings. Except she hated him. lol When he grew up, he went to work for the railroad with my dad. My dad hated him, too.

The first time I remember meeting him was when my dad took me on a train ride from Cheyenne to Laramie. We ran into him at the depot. He was the scariest-looking man I had met up to that point in my life. Dad introduced us, told me that he was my cousin, and I was horrified.

Two summers ago, dad and I were talking about him. He told me one time at the club where the railroaders stayed overnight on their runs, this cousin got pissed and drunk, pulled out his hand gun, and shot a toilet. No one was hurt and he got in big trouble. Because no one was hurt, I can say that as a then 42-year-old adult, I saw humor in it. Yes, I laughed. Laughing at him, not with him.

This cousin was the black sheep of the family. Everyone had issues with him. Everyone. So I judged a book by the cover, and accepted my parents' and family's view.

I was wrong.

Nine years ago, I was working hard at genealogy. I was stuck on my mom's side of the family. I knew that my other cousin, the black sheep's much younger sister, would be able to help me. I called her. We hadn't talked since 1986. When my grandma died, the family dissolved, and my mom never spoke to these two cousins again. She was cold, distant yet friendly at the same time. It was obvious she didn't want a relationship. She also had no interest in family history, didn't have answers. She shared with me that she only spoke to her brother once a year at Christmas.
That was that.

Imagine my surprise when two days after talking to her, my phone rang. It was the black sheep cousin. She called him to tell him I was very into our family history. He called me because he had something to give me. His kids were not interested in genealogy whatsoever. He had two trunks full of photos, bibles, silverware, a curling iron, baby shoes, clothes -- things dating back for certain to 1879, but more than likely well beyond that. It was of extreme importance that he give this stuff to someone that CARED. And that was me. I know every single family member on that side of the family going back five to seven generations. One line I am well versed with the family 14 generations back.

I was thrilled and told him I'd get back to him. He lived in Colorado, I lived in Minnesota, and my son was in kindergarten, I drove a small Subaru at the time and had to figure out a way to get the trunks here.

Well, imagine my surprise when one morning, three days later, my doorbell rang. He got in his truck, drove two days up here to bring me the trunks. We sat and talked all day long. I asked a million questions, he answered. He told me story after story--some not so good, some hilarious, some sad. We went through everything in the trunks. I know I had tears down my face many times that day. He took us to dinner and insisted on paying. He did not want to impose and stay with us and insisted on a motel.

He was kind. He was good. He was judged. I felt awful for accepting someone else's history and perception. Sure, I do know that he had troubles, I have the newspaper articles. Yet I saw something in him that I don't know that the rest of my family did. I know his mother was awful, and it's amazing he survived his childhood. He was horribly abused. People were so busy being hateful toward him, expecting perfection from him, that they could not see what a wonderful, good heart he had.

He was a gruff man. He was not someone you would want to mess with. He stood out in our family. Underneath it all, he had a very loving spirit. We shared a bond that he didn't share with anyone else in our family: A love of our history, a true compassion for our ancestors. We really connected.

My dad was rather perplexed that I liked him. He told me lots of stories to set me straight. I saw beyond that. I saw there was good in him.

We talked about once every two years after that. I sent him all my research, showing where we came from in Germany. I shared everything I had. When he was visiting, I was showing him a couple pictures my mother had given to me, and amongst them was a photo of one of his former wives (he had a lot) and his daughter. When he saw that, a tear ran down his face. He actually asked me if he could have that photo. He had no contact with the ex-wife or daughter, I could clearly see he had regret and love. He had only a memory. Of course I gave him the photo.

So when I found out he died, I cried.

This man gave to me the greatest gift I have ever received in my life. I do not know that anything can ever be better than what he gave to me or have more meaning. The trunks, the possessions, the photos--oh, to have faces to put with names. Many of the photos have been framed and are proudly hanging on my walls. All that plus the stories, the laughter, the tears--that bond that was amazing. We got each other.

I sent the nicest flower arrangement I could (would) afford. Dang, flowers are expensive. I did not call my siblings to go in together. This had to be from me, my husband and son. He was kind to all of us. My husband liked him, my son, who was very young, remembers him and liked him.

The flowers were for him, not his family. I wanted a piece of me to be there as he was lowered into the ground, I wanted to touch him with beauty. I hope his family enjoys them as well--usually I buy for family. These, though, were for him.

When I got off the phone with the florist, I spoke out loud:

Russ, these flowers are from me, hubby and son. They are also from my mom and dad, who I know are in a place where they are over their grudges and can see clearly. They are from grandmother and granddad, who did love you. They are from Great Grandma and Grandpa S, who loved you. The grandparents, who you loved with all your heart. I have photos of them with you, I see the love. This is from all of us.

Corny, but I'm very serious. He was the only person on the face of this earth that would truly get and appreciate why I said what I said. After that, my son and I held our own memorial service by going through the trunks together.

Russ gave me the greatest tangible gift I could ever receive. He also gave me a great mental gift as well: Never judge a book by its cover.

Rest in peace, Russ.