The Last of a Great Generation

My great uncle died yesterday, peacefully, in his sleep, at the age of ninety-five. My mother called to tell me, her voice cracking a little. I imagine it is difficult for her, that now only her siblings remain, that the generation of adults who cared for her is now gone.

I am happy for my uncle, though I know for my cousin, his son, it will certainly be hard. Yes, he was ninety-five. He lived an incredible life, but my father is still gone. We are given one father and one mother in our life, some better than others, but that is the blood that bore us. Their absence is felt terribly, because for us, there was never a time, until now, when they were not.

What I remember about my great uncle most is that he had a sharp mind. Thanksgiving at the family house in New York eight years ago he recited the entire Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - the entire poem, only pausing to give more dramatic interpretation. He had perfect grammar, understood the word presently as it is supposed to be understood and didn't have any inhibitions about correcting those who used it incorrectly. His little room in the retirement home was filled with old, dusty books in German, Latin, Greek, French. I remember he had my husband read to him from the Gospel of St. John in Greek, patiently nodding as my husband struggled through it. I remember the last time I talked to him was two years ago - he called to wish us a Happy Anniversary. He traveled all the way across the country to come to our Wedding - he noted that the Orthodox do everything three times. He really paid attention. He came to my graduation from college. He came to my husband's graduation. He took me to the Orthodox Church in Hartford following my Grandmother's death. How devoted he was to her, to everyone in the family. He loved with a full heart.

He never said a bad word about anyone - never - he didn't even allude to perhaps even being disappointed with a family member, though I am certain he missed nothing. He was not the kind to miss anything. I'm sure he had a fierce world of inner struggles and deep pain at times, but he stood upright and alert. One would never know.

I loved the way he pronounced words, especially "at all" - ahtall. I loved how confidently and yet how kindly he remarked that my husband would be more comfortable in a jacket for dinner at the retirement home. He didn't think he was better than anyone else, but he also knew the way things are done. He never was ashamed to speak the name of Christ. He was a very faithful man, the quality of man that is extremely difficult to find these days. This is what makes me the most sad, that with him died a great generation, so many stories, so many moments in History that he witnessed with his own eyes.

I know I am not doing him nor his life any justice with this post, but I wanted to say something, to say that I am glad that I knew him, to say that I am proud to have been his great-niece, and that I am very sorrowful he is now gone.