Ramblings

Bloviating: to you, from me. Chide me if you will. algot@runeman.org

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Sat, 07 Mar 2009

Out of the Blue

Family. Some people have a large one. Others not so large.

Mine is downright small. In terms of a tree, it is tiny, just two branches.

Runeman isn't a common name unless you get involved with the game character, RuneMan. The members of the clan in the US number under 20, including the ones married into the name. One of the branches is mine, here in Massachusetts, the other branch is in Indiana where my cousin Jack is. Jack and I are the old generation, both in our sixties. Our sons and their children, that's it. Three living generations, and it looks like the family name will carry on only from Jack's branch. My grandchildren are both girls. Jack tells me he has two grandsons and three granddaughters.

Jack's dad was my father's younger brother, my uncle John. Jack was born six years before me. Jack also had a brother, Bob who was killed in an auto accident, many years ago. My dad married late and I was the only surviving child after three miscarriages for my mother.

I lived in Chicago as a little kid and moved to a town called Wheeling, northwest of the big city, when I was eight. We visited Indiana a couple of times a year, somebody's birthday and Christmas being typical. I spent one summer visiting my aunt and uncle, Jack and his older brother Bob. The house was right by a train track, but I slept well. My own bedroom at home was right above the busy road, with trucks passing my window late into the night.

I remember with shame, that I played carelessly with Jack's beautifully built model planes. They were too delicate for my childish hands, and I probably even tried to get them to fly across the room. There was a field with strawberries beside the house. They were small but delicious.

One Christmas visit, I recall helping Aunt Inkie to grind the ingredients for what I remember was a kind of potato sausage. Either as a birthday or Christmas present, my parents bought me a book by Robert Heinlein while we visited one year. I loved Heinlein's writing, and always think of visiting South Bend and Mishawaka when I reread a book by Heinlein.

In 1964, after graduating from high school, I got a small motorcycle, a Honda 90. I weighed over 200 pounds, and must have looked odd on such a small motorcycle. My helmet was a simple white one, looking like a bowl on my head and had leather that covered my ears and a strap under my chin. The wind of riding caused the leather over my ears to flap. I rode east from Wheeling in July, around the southern end of Lake Michigan, and stopped to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins my first night on the road. Aunt Inkie sewed some cloth around something, forming tubes about as thick as a kid's pencil, you know, the ones thicker than the classic #2. She attached the tubes along the front edge of the leather where they pressed against my sideburns, just in front of my ears. Boy, were they great. They prevented the wind from making me deaf, and kept my ears warmer when it got cold later. I was on my way to Massachusetts where my girlfriend lived. It was a great trip, made better by the kindness of my aunt.

In 1966, I moved to Massachusetts after marrying the girlfriend from high school. I pretty much left the Midwest behind. I did visit my Illinois home a few times over the years, but not enough to stay in close contact with the family in Indiana. I don't know how long it had been, but when Jack called, it took him three times, repeating his name before I got it.

Jack says he is doing moderately well, with lung issues that probably originated with his cigarette smoking as a younger man. At 68, he decided to follow up having found my address through the Internet, and called. I am glad he did. I don't suppose we will suddenly begin swapping visits between the east coast and midwest, but it was amazing how easily we talked after all the years. It seems logical that we will try to keep in touch. Thanks, Jack for getting the ball rolling.

Jack told me he was on his way the next day to a grandchild's eighth birthday. I neglected to ask the grandchild's name. Nonetheless, "Happy birthday from Cousin Algot."