Saying Good-Bye

Technology can be a wonderful thing; especially when you cannot physically be in a place due to distance and/or COVID-19 restrictions. I live on the other side of the world from my Canadian family. Except for my son who is from Canada but lives in Australia as I do, my mother, brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles and numerous other relatives still reside in the place where I grew up. All my grandparents and great grandparents and great greats have passed on (and yes, they lived in my time though some were very old when they left this realm). I still have a great uncle, now the oldest man in Canada, on my mother’s side and through the power of the internet expect to see his next birthday in January. (He’ll be 110.) 

Yes, I have been blessed with a large family and with many who have lived long lives, receiving recognition from the PM and Queen at times. And I am very fond of staying in touch with them to say hello, catch up and offer congratulations as they pass various milestones. But the passing of each member stings a bit more as I grow older and the gaps between years when I see them extend even farther. So, when I received news that my uncle Charlie had passed — I felt sad for obvious reasons but also that I could not be with my family and share in those last moments of saying good-bye.

Then a couple family members sent me a live private video link to the funeral home so that I could watch from afar and join my family. Suddenly I was in the midst of the service, listening to the music, hearing the memories from family, the scripture verses and a beautiful message about this wonderful man I called my uncle—my dad’s youngest brother. Passion for the sea was mentioned as ocean salt runs through our bloodline. I thought about Charlie’s love of making ship models, my father’s love of sailing and working on boats, and their brother, Buddy (the middle child) playing with them at the beach. My dad came from a family of three boys. They lived on the coast, played on the sand, worked on ships and dreamed of many wondrous things ahead.

Sadly, as with every family, death made its appearance. First, their brother, at nine years of age was swept away when his appendix ruptured. In those days, in the early forties, medical care was not quite so available or quick. That day— changed everyone— I am sure. My father being the oldest, took it particularly hard. He never wanted to talk about it. The pain was too great so his memory of the experience was muted. Charlie, the youngest, shared with me a fair bit of information on their brother which allowed me to compose this poem below. I am grateful for what he remembered and to know Buddy was a much loved brother with a happy spirit.

My father, after years of being a captain of his own vessels, working on the sea, dealing with its challenges — walked one last time up his beloved beach after stepping out of his dinghy onto the cool sand. I can picture him turning to gaze across the bay with a wistful look; wishing his time there was not over. But he had become too ill. Kidney disease and a short lived kidney transplant took him away from what he loved and ultimately from those of us who loved him deeply. That was fourteen years ago—twelve days short of his seventy-sixth birthday. But my thoughts and memories of his amazing strengths, his passions, his kindness to others and boyish grin— are clear as diamonds shining in my heart. I have written many poems about my father whom I admired and adored. One of which he heard, thanks to my mother who read it to him, as he sailed out to the eternal shore. For I was far away from home, living in Australia. The distance— again— my enemy.

Then on October 20th, 2020 I received a call from my mother. Charlie (or Sonny as we called him) passed away. My heart sank. Even though I knew he had been unwell, it still hurt to see another family member slip away: particularly because he was the last of the great three Spear brothers. Charlie was eighty-six. He had lived the longest of his siblings. Although he loved ships and the sea, his professional journey mostly took him down a different path. He went to business college, borrowed my mother’s study books (she went there as well) and became an office man in accounting. Over the years, he worked with some impressive businesses: Canadian National Railway, Brookville Chemicals and the Saint John Dry Dock (which in 1918 was slated to become the largest dry dock in the world). So it seems the sea managed to still weave its way into his life in one way or another: sometimes at work, other times in hobbies that included building and collecting ship models.

From the other side of the world, through a fixed camera angle that connected me to my past, I watched, listened and observed Charlie’s memorial service. Tears crept into my eyes as memories surfaced: memories of family, special moments here and there. Words shared showed that my uncle was well acknowledged for his kind and strong attributes— his love of family, his protective and loyal care of each one part of him. I thought about my own father and how he was the same— you always knew he was trying to be the best he could for his family. Working hard— faithful to the end.

Charlie and my father, Edward, shared certain attributes. They were both resilient and steady hands in their family’s lives. They were a generation of strong yet gentle providers of love, home and support. They were quiet, soft spoken individuals but their actions spoke volumes. They passed down to their sons and daughters many great things— including a blueprint for true and lasting success—in the home and at work.

As the memorial service closed at 1:30 am in Australia (11:30 am on east coast Canada), I joined my family by live internet in the march to the next step of my uncle’s journey. I thought about his bright blue eyes, for which he was famous, and his illuminating smile, that had now become an eternal replay in our minds. Then my heart stirred once again like the gentle brush of wind on a reed, as my eyes scanned the view directly in front of me of my own siblings, their children and wives. I cried. I sighed. I smiled. More branches from the same solid tree.

As the internet feed ended at 1:35 am, I took a deep breath. It is never easy saying good-bye to someone you care about. Particularly family. ❤️

🦋 🦋 🦋

To hear the poem I wrote for my father mentioned above, follow this link.

The poem ‘Buddy’ below was published in the collection The Poet’s Lunch at ANU, 2019 (The Australian National University in Canberra) in 2019.

🧢

BUDDY

(October 10, 1932 - March 25, 1941)

 

Born on my son's birthday--

fifty-five years earlier,

the middle child,

the missing link

between the two--

and yet I know so little

about you--

looking at your round

bright face

captured here on print.

 

My father, your elder brother,

has not spoken much of you:

grief has left its legacy--

its sad and bitter truth.

But your younger brother

told me of your diamond spirit,

your skill and charm:

how you learned so very quickly--

memorizing words and lines

and while others 

were still studying,

you'd be off exploring

imagination's wood and sea--

so much like my own son--

with a heart that loves to dream.

 

Now, it is almost Spring

and the anniversary 

of your death—

your niece,

who is so much younger

than your parting, and older

than your last youthful breath,

cannot find you-- inside the dark

of others' memories:

a photograph, a word or two,

has only led me back here

walking through this open glade--

searching for roots

that never seem to end.

 

I come to your resting place

to listen for your voice

but only hear a hoot owl

and the rain

dripping off the trees.

I think about your father,

my grandfather,

kneeling in the dust--

wishing he could hear

your laughter, your cries,

your whispers in the night;

and how he must have longed

to hold you in his arms again--

to kiss that last falling tear

as it ran down on your chin...

 

Looking around me

at all the markings of loss--

I close my eyes

and fold my hands

in simple prayer.

The grave seems a mute

and final end

but your fledgling spirit--

stronger than your flesh--

has escaped the sting

of winter's grasp.

 

Buddy, you are not here--

not the part that matters most:

like the Morning Dove,

you have flown into the sun--

where the scent of heather lingers

in a land forever green;

where you are now-- awakened--

to the song inside the wind.

 

By: Cindy L Spear