A long time ago, I told my second-year university room-mate Vince the story about my role in my uncle Ed’s abrupt departure from this world. When I finished, Vince–now a lawyer—said, “That’s probably why you’re so weird.”
Ignore the “weird” comment for a moment.
Until Vince’s remark, it never occurred to me that being in mid-conversation with Ed—who died instantly of a heart attack while joking with 12-year-old me and my 14-year-old brother Ed (his namesake) would have had any measurable or long-lasting effects.
Last week, I learned differently.
Last week, I learned differently.
First, let me tell you about Ed’s passing. Then you tell me if you agree with Vince.
Ed was my father Tom’s slightly older brother. (Just like me and my brother Eddie.)
In the late '40s, Tom and Ed started a bus business in Sudbury, ON. They grew the company into a healthy enterprise, employing dozens of drivers and mechanics and assorted go-fers and providing livelihoods for 100s of Sudburians. My folks alone had 10 kids.
That Tom and Ed ran lean and worked all the time is a sentence I don’t really need to write.
Our revenue was almost solely comprised of the nickels, dimes, and quarters that came in from individual fares. Tom and Ed never missed a payroll and as far as I know we kept Revenue Canada and the banks satisfied. Plus we provided rides to and from work, school, home, church, hospital, and shopping places to thousands of people who otherwise would have had a devil of a time getting there.
Then, just when the company was facing one of its many huge crises, Ed came to visit our house on Eyre Street, which he did a lot.
At one moment in the evening, Ed was in a big lazy-boy chair, my brother Eddie was sitting on the floor across the room holding his guitar and I was sort of half kneeling beside Ed’s lazy-boy.
We were the only three in the room.
Uncle Ed asked Eddie to play a tune. My brother had some typically self-effacing comment like, “Nah, you’re the only one who wants to hear my guitar.”
Ed’s response--which turned out to be the last thing he ever said--was one of encouragement. Along the lines of “No Ed. Tonight we want to hear.”
Then, with scarcely a breath and with no jerky movements, drama or sound, Uncle Ed’s glass slipped out of his hand, and his head fell to one side.
I called my mom from the kitchen. Uncle Ed was gone.
The ambulance, priest and relatives were called. The house got pretty chaotic and I don’t remember much about the evening, but some things, a guy never forgets.
Earlier this week, I was talking about things with my older sister Bertholde when she pointed to something very significant.
When Ed died, my Dad was just about the same age I am now. And he lost his only brother, business partner, confidante, his best drinkin’ buddy. It must have been universe-shaking. I don't know about you, but my brothers know me better than I know myself and I trust them completely.
Uncle Ed was my Dad’s business anchor. And suddenly he wasn't there.
So you know what my Dad did when Ed died?
He followed the same advice he’d give drivers when they got into accidents: “Get back in the saddle and drive before you’re scared to.”
Singlehandedly, Dad did what it took to keep the buses moving and the workers paid. With all the honesty, integrity and good humor that he was famous around town for. Kept it going for years.
I didn’t recognize it at the time, but after Ed died, and Dad had to draw on every possible resource to stay the course, he sent us all a strong message which was, simply, don’t give up. No matter what the world tosses your way. And don't compromise your principles.
Maybe Vince was right. No matter what happens, I remain blindly and weirdly optimistic. And part of the reason is because we all saw how Dad conducted himself.
I've long known we should all behave at work as though your kids were watching.
One more thing: I can’t imagine losing my brother Ed. He’s there for me, whenever anything bad (or good) happens.
But you know what brothers are like. I love reminding him that it was his guitar playing that felled our beloved uncle.
But really? Every once in a while, Ed visits my house, we have a few beers and make music—him on guitar, me on accordion.
Remember. I’m the same age my Dad was when his Ed died in our living room.
The minute Eddie picks up the six-string, I immediately channel one of my father’s favorite old-time TV characters, Redd Foxx, star of Sanford and Son.
At least once an episode, Sanford—an aging widowed junkyard owner—would feel sickly, he’d put his hand over his heart, look upward and be like, “Oh oh! This could be the big one. Elizabeth! I’m a-comin.’”
Big laugh, i know. But I have warned Ed. If he goes before me, I'll kill him.
By Peter Carter
By Peter Carter
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