Heartache in the Neighborhood

Years have passed since we rode our bikes through my neighborhood of childhood that eventually ushered in teen years, high school graduations, college educations and launched fcareers and life as adults taking on the beauty and responsibilities of marriage and becoming parents of our own. This stage of my adult life includes a reflective mirror that allows glimpses back on those formative years that seemed so idyllic. And, though they were, holding onto the treasures and memories of bike rides, games of hide and seek, Halloween night escapades along with snowball fights and the building of forts, sorrow was not an unfamiliar guest.

We are standing outside the home of the G family, the ones who lived in the brick home, owner of the construction business. The years of long neck beer bottles being delivered to their home have taken on the reality that alcoholism exists in the lives of these wonderful friends and neighbors. It’s a truth that escaped my childhood innocence for many years. I wouldn’t come to recognize and understand for quite some time the devastation this disease’s toll can have on a person. While I never actually saw anyone in the family when they were drunk, I knew. Slowly, details of dysfunction emerged in the life of their oldest son, Gary. I would describe him as a “bad boy”, handsome, talented in many ways, but possessed a weakness towards alcohol and rebellion. Though our lives separated once high school graduation took place, I learned that after working with his younger brother in the family business for many years, he died. His body was destroyed by the effects of too much drinking. I can only imagine the mental anguish he endured that drove him to drown his problems in a glass of beer.

This same family had another son, Jeff. He came along late in life to Mrs. G. I can clearly remember him being born and becoming a delightful child. But, later as an adult, whatever tormented Jeff caused him to take his life. As if losing one child is certainly unbearable in my own imagination, I cannot fathom the loss of two.

We can wander now to the middle of the street, to the P family. Let me introduce you to them as I didn’t do so in the previous year’s bike tour. The P family had two daughters, both of them very pretty and fun to play with outside or with our Barbie dolls in the shade of a tree or garage. Mr. and Mrs. P were rather private people too. (I used to confuse private with being stern or mean)

Like the lost connections with the other kids of Zauel Street, I had no contact with the girls after moving away from home. I learned that the oldest daughter, Barb, had married and had a toddler son. She had a great job which involved the opportunity to travel. One of those business trips took her and her husband to Texas. I learned that before they left for the trip she insisted on creating a will and custody arrangements for their son in the event of death. This desire was scoffed at by her husband and I hold no fault for that. Don’t we all assume life will never be interrupted? But it was. Barb and her husband were in the back seat of a taxi one evening during the trip and they were rear ended in an accident. Barb did not come home on the plane alive. Her husband, her family, joined the group of despairing families who had suffered extreme loss.

Remember the home of Mrs. H? The mom who made donuts or other goodies for us kids? They, too, experienced the loss of a child. Not one, but over the course of a few years, two daughters. Tragically, one took her life and the other died several years ago of an illness. Intertwined with those losses was the suicide of a daughter who belonged to the oldest son, granddaughter to Mr. & Mrs. H. This past year, the surviving daughter of David died from a heart issue; she was only in her 30’s. 

Back at my own home, now empty of our memories with a new family living there, I am thinking of my oldest brother David. He often recalled how he helped our dad with the different phases of building the house which was completed in 1954. He’d smile when he told me about seeing me walk for the first time, getting up from sitting on a pile of hardwood flooring and taking off through the house that could be walked in a circle through the doors to each room. David left home in 1967 when he married. He didn’t move far from us so visits were frequent, especially when his three daughters had birthday celebrations or holidays rolled around. 

Dave was my buddy. Seven years older than me, we seldom argued. He tried to teach me euchre, let me borrow his baseball mitt (we were both left handed) and we shared a love for popcorn and homemade ice cream, both of which he would make without any extra pleading on my part. 

It’s hard to believe that  memories are from the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s. Before we both realized it, we landed in the 2000’s. Gone were the frequent visits as miles were put between us by my family’s move from Saginaw in 1989. Phone visits kept us connected with a few family gatherings in the summer months. News came by phone two years ago that Dave was struggling physically and emotionally. After several misdiagnoses, Dave received the final report that he had a tumor on his brain. At first, surgery seemed an option, but the tumor had a mind of its own, growing fast, creating and solidifying that surgical intervention was not an option. Dave left the hospital and entered a care facility. As the tumor gained in strength, overpowering his ability to converse much, he had an increased need for pain medication. My last visit with him in person is one I will always cherish. He was in and out of coherence; I can still hear him saying “whoa” repeatedly. Then, and even now, I believe he was getting glimpses of heaven. We were able to exchange “I love yous” that day which became the last words he spoke to me. News of his death came several days later. At the very moment of leaving this life, Dave was reunited with our parents, grandparents, numerous uncles, aunts, and cousins.

While I have absolutely no doubt where my brother is spending eternity, I have to confess I hold a certain amount of fear for Gary. For Jeff. For Barb. Any time I rode my bike or took a walk in my neighborhood back in those years of childhood, I don’t remember any deep connection with God for those families. The immaturity of a child cannot comprehend such a disconnect. It’s now, as I reflect, as I write and describe what I can “see” and “remember” that this precious gift of salvation was not taught or modeled by their parents. Thankfully, the H family were faithful church attenders and opportunity for a relationship with God was most evident.

I haven’t thought a lot about all the families I grew up with as a child. Occasionally a memory will pop into my mind and float by as quickly as it came.When I do ponder the variety of memories and experiences, I can clearly see now that as a child I experienced life  wearing rose colored glasses and adorned myself with  trusting innocence. That was comfortable attire for a little girl born in 1953 who left home in 1974. Now, in 2021, having “lived life”, complete with my own measure of joy and sorrow, coming face to face with my own weaknesses, I am looking at those years with lens of discovery and reality of brokenness, gazing at imperfect people who did their best in the moment, in the years of successes and setbacks, and above all–great loss. Now that I have been able to measure and evaluate the influences from each family, mainly the adults at the time, on my life, I am thankful. I am grateful that in the midst of dysfunction, lack of faith for some, each family was respected, loved, accepted–even disciplined–I marvel at how so “many” different people could build a home, have a family, and create a beautiful, loud, crazy neighborhood that I loved to ride my bike through, stopping for a cold glass of Kool Aid or a P & B sandwich served on a paper plate from one of the “neighborhood moms”.