I got an urgent cell phone call from brother 8:31 AM on Wednesday morning while walking to my car on Summer St. in downtown Stamford.
"Cousin Marsha passed away-the funeral is at the family plot in Hawthorne, NY, tomorrow at 10:30. Are you coming?"
Without hesitating, I said, "Sure, I'll be there!"
A Jewish funeral must be held within 24 hours of the person's death
(unless there are extenuating circumstances like flying the
deceased halfway around the world).
To me a family funeral is an opportunity to show support for those of us whose burning lights are still lit--to be a source of comfort to the bereaved siblings; in this case, Marsha's brother Carrie needs my support.
Though I see Carrie on such infrequent occasions such as major family birtdays, deaths, unveilings, weddings, etc, I knew he needed my support more than ever, now.
I called him on his cell later on Wednesday to let him know I would be there for him.
His comment was: "I do appreciate your coming? I didn't think you would make it!"
So much for family unity! I'm not a cynic. I take Carrie's side.
I saw him last two summers ago at Aunt Libby's 85th birthday party
held at a waterside restaurant up in the mid Hudson Valley.
And since that event, there was no major family event to pull us together! So, there's a lack of communication, which leads often time to indifference and distances between cousins.
And an attitude arises which goes something like, we are not close to begin with, so why bother showing up? Why should be bother to show sympathy.
Heck, I am coming to pay respects to his sister, my cousin Marsha. And secondly, it's 'this' connection thing, 'this' opportunity to reconnect with cousins I have not seen for two years.
Good cousins make good fences to paraphrase an American poet, Robert Frost.
We all have our own lives and go our separate ways.
But, I can always be counted on to show up, when my presence is needed.
So, who was Marsha?
She didn't have it easy! She was a renegade teenager who fled here parents household in Flushing, Queens for the village life in the early 60's.
Her doting parents did not know her residence, if indeed she had one.
She would pop home every once in a while to grab some clothes, to cop a good meal from her forlorn mom.
Did she live a monastic life? Far from it, she had to whom she was loyal.
She led a life far from the serious academic graduate school life I was
enjoying at Columbia in the mid-sixties.
I was (and dressed) uptown Ivy and she was (and dressed) downtown Bohemian.
She would repeat foul language and ideas others would share with her, insensitive and impervious to the consequences. On the other hand, I was cool, diplomatic and tactful.
Yet, she's blood and I will show my family solidarity by showing up and remembering Marsha.
Carrie tells a true story about Marsha aged 8 or 9.
It's 1959 and Hollywood has come to our neighborhood, to the old
Biograph Movie studios (1913-1980) around the corner from Prospect Avenue on 175th Street near Crotona Park.
Here's where the great silent movie stars--Mary Pickford, Lionel Barrymore and Lillian Gish-made their movies.
And it was here that cousin Marsha would hang out every day waiting to get the autograph of Elizabeth Taylor who would arrive in a limo daily with Eddie Fisher. The two stars, along with Laurence Harvey were making Butterfield 8 here. Here's a link to a trailer about the film:
Well, one day, Marsha made her move. She waited to ambush Elizabeth Taylor outside the studio, next to a parked limo. The star exits the studio and as she sits herself down in the car, Marsh pushes her way in and demands an autograph.
Five seconds later, a rather disgruntled and dishevelled Marsha exits the limo at the end of an outstretched arm--without the coveted signature.
I can only think of the following dialog between Harvey and Taylor in the movie:
Harvey: "You are all alike aren't you? Play tough!
Taylor: "I am not like anyone. I'm me."
Yes, Marsha had to be herself. She had to play on her own terms and on her own turf!
May her soul rest in peace.
Thank you, cousin Carrie for this anecdote.
It brings back the good days when all four families lived in close proximity in the East Tremont area of the Bronx, living in close proximity to the fifth family our Zaidi and Bubba.
Those were the golden olde days when our families gathered together to eat around grandma's big round table enjoying her kreplach. Those were the golden days when we would all gather in the furnished basement of my Uncle Ben's house to watch the Milton Berle show on his 7 inch TV with magnifying glass in front.
Now, with our parents gone, we cousins gather to commemorate the deceased and share our lives together, however briefly,--- around the family grave site.
This time we lingered an hour after the burial-- sharing memories, sharing our hearts sharing our lives, together.
Long live the family--our family.
