Makes Great The Life

Mactech-husband's family (maternal side) held a reunion this weekend. We gathered in an Elk's club on the shores of the Navesink River in Red Bank, NJ, the scene of the last family reunion (paternal side)
It was a warm and humid night by that pretty river where the rows of shrink-wrapped boats seemed prematurely hoisted out of the water. I brought my camera but both batteries were dead (a testament to the generally chaotic nature of my life during September) I'll have to wait for the shared family photos on this one.
The picture that appears here is of the invitation. "Strive, strive I urge..." which balloons from that serious gentleman's face paraphrases a Robert Browning quote that was a favorite mantra of Tim's grandfather.

"But try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice;
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life."

"Grandpa" was born on the south side of Chicago near the stockyards before the turn of the century. he died in the late seventies. He was a self-made man who yearned to be a priest early in his life but was told by his parish pastor, a wise and practical sort, that his family needed him to help support them financially. He took it to heart.
He started by selling newspapers on the street (while his mother sold sanitary belts, a new invention, door to door). He eventually became the Secretary of Agriculture for the State of Illinois. He might have gone to Washington, but a Republican, Warren G. Harding, won the 1920 presidential election.
He moved his family east, to NJ, sometime around the stock market crash and while the story that's told has him going flat broke three times - he landed on his feet each time and the family prospered. He was a larger than life presence in the lives of his grandchildren and they told the stories, funny and poignant to prove it. One of my favorites is my sister-in-law's story about her first job after college in the early seventies. He was passionate about education, travel and career choices. She was afraid to tell him that she had landed a job as a sex-educator. When she finally sheepishly told him, he bellowed throwing his arms in the air, "Why I think that's wonderful! Your nana and I didn't know anything when we got married."

Three of Peter Emmet's six children are living. There are thirty-three grandchildren, forty-five great-grandchildren and six great-greats (one of which makes an appearance on this blog quite often.

It Was

It is cooler this morning but the sky is exactly the same as it was that day.
I had handed Tim a stack of late invitations to our daughter's wedding to be mailed from work(anyone who lives in my neighborhood knows it has the worst post office in the city) The Trade Center had its own zip code and a fairly high percentage of employees who read and spoke English. They processed a huge volume of mail daily and they did so fairly well. I had to rush off to school that morning because I needed to straighten out some problems with a big order of toner cartridges. A lack of toner can provoke life and death reactions early in September.
I distinctly remember registering the beauty of that morning and enjoying it because I knew it was not going to be an easy season. Tim had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. In between after school appointments to taste potential wedding cakes and have wedding clothes altered, I would be meeting him at various doctor's offices throughout Manhattan to listen to the merits of radiation versus surgery, surgery versus radiation. This was the start of my 20th year at my school we had a new head for the first time. How would that go? (another story)
In my computer lab I was simultaneously on the phone with my toner vendor and checking e-mails when the school custodian came in to ask me if I had an antenna for the TV in the library. I remember feeling very annoyed with him. Couldn't he see I was busy? What the hell did he need to watch on TV anyway? It wasn't yet 9:00 AM. He didn't want to tell me but he did. He knew where my husband worked. A plane had hit the Trade Center.
The rest of the morning is a blur in my memory. A kind of static-y numb steeliness took over. I went directly home watching the huge plume of black smoke take over the sky. The housekeeper was there and I sent her home. I didn't want anyone around me except the one person who wasn't there. The phone eventually stopped working but until it did, it rang and rang, our daughter at work at 200 Park, crying uncontrollably. Our son, from the midwest where he was beginning law school, The brothers, sisters, relatives, friends. I had no information for them except what the television was showing us all – that the first plane had hit awfully close to the 88th floor where Tim's corner office had a most breathtaking view north and west.
I'm not sure what time it was. I heard his voice out on the sidewalk and ran to the door. Neighbors were out on the street crying and hugging. The invitations were still in his bag.