Family

Today I had my semi-annual phone chat with my cousin Lin. He is 83 years old and lives in Newberry, South Carolina. To be precise, he's my first-cousin-once-removed, the adopted son of my dad's Aunt Hazel (my grandmother's sister). His own dad, who died when Lin was a boy, was actually the brother of his adoptive father—so the person Lin called "Dad" was really his uncle. (Yeah, I have to sort that out anew every single time, too.)

I have met Lin in person only once, on a family vacation that swerved through Newberry so my dad could visit with his Aunt Hazel—the mother of Lin's wife, Mabel. I was 11 or 12 at the time. This was in the early '70s, and it is the only memory I have of Aunt Hazel (who died in 2001 at age 102), or of Lin and Mable, or of their son, Ross (who died in 2010 at age 45). 

My three siblings and I remember Ross for a single conversation during that visit. He was maybe 7 then (he was three days older than my sister Karen). With the blunt curiosity of children, we asked him about the scar on his face, and he told us he had once knocked a pan off the stove and got burned with hot grease. 

"Hamburger grease," he added in a stage whisper, his hand shielding his mouth for confidentiality and a dash of dramatic flair, and we just knew that had made it all the worse.

Lin started calling me, out of the blue, several years ago—not long before Hazel died, at first only around New Year's, then eventually twice a year. He calls my mom less regularly; I don't know if he calls my siblings. I'm not sure why that is. When he calls me, it's always just to say hello, to catch up, to remind me (without ever saying it explicitly or judgmentally) that family is family and that it's good to keep in touch. 

Lin always speaks proudly of Ross, who ran his own computer repair shop near Newberry. He gave me Ross's email address and phone number once; I wrote and called but never heard back. I didn't mind, really—I figured Ross might feel as awkward as I did, not sure of what to talk about with a second cousin he'd met only once, years ago, the memory long since faded. 

Not long after our twice-yearly chats had begun, Lin told me Ross was struggling with cancer. So it wasn't a complete surprise in 2010 when I listened to the voicemail—the call a couple of months early, the message short and to the point, Lin's voice cracking just a little—telling me Ross had died. I called back and left my condolences on Lin's answering machine. A few months later, at the usual interval, Lin called again, as garrulous and cheerful as ever, once again making an ordinary day that much happier. He told me about Ross' service, the nice things family and friends had said and done.

This time, a few days ago, Lin's call came while I was out of the house for the day. My wife Linda let me know he'd called—they'd had a good chat, but I needed to call him back. Lin is in home-hospice care now. His daughter-in-law, Bobbie Jo—Ross' widow, since remarried—is there to take care of him. There's also Shanna (Ross' and Bobbie Jo's daughter), and Shanna's husband and their infant Sophia, Lin's great-granddaughter.

So today I called Lin, and we chatted for a while. I luxuriated in his comforting Carolina drawl, hearing my own heritage in that melodic twang of elastic vowels and improbable syllabic dips and curves, the familiar cadences in his now oft-repeated stories of "bein' took"—adopted by his uncle when his momma died and his daddy couldn't take proper care of him. I hear the happy smile in his voice when he speaks of Bobbie Jo and Shanna and Sophia, all together in that cluttered little house on Harper Street, long since paid off by Mable. 

Lin is grateful for the connection to his late wife and to their late son. His outlook is still bright, filled with keen awareness of life's blessings, even in the face of its most stark and looming reality. 

I told Lin about my mom's adventure with lung cancer, only just beginning, diagnosed a week ago. He asked how old she was and I said, "She'll be 87 in September," asserting my own optimism. He offered up a classic Southern "bless her heart" and said, "Give her my love." 

Lin and I hung up, and I renewed a vow I've always been lousy at keeping, which doesn't make it less worth renewing: Cherish your family. Make the effort to know the ones you know the least. Learn something about them if you can. And even if you can't, be grateful for them. 

Invite them into your life, and into your heart. 

Update: May 12, 2014—This past weekend I drove down to Newberry to visit with Lin. I also met Bobbie Jo, Shanna and baby Sophia. It was a great visit, and I hope to go down there again while I can still talk to Lin. 

Update: November 19, 2014—I stopped through Newberry on my way home from Tallahassee, where my mom died November 2. Lin looked and sounded well. 

Update: April 20, 2015—I woke up this morning thinking it was about time to give cousin Lin a call. Our last chat was in February, about two months ago. Before I called today, though, I followed an uneasy hunch and went to Google ... where I found Lin's obituary, dated March 18. It was only when I opened my blog to add the update that I noticed the date of the original post: one year ago today. 

RIP, Cousin. I will remember you with love and fondness.