A few words about Uncle George

A few words about Uncle George When people hear of a sudden death, you often get the reply, “well, that’s the way I want to go.” 

But it’s a selfish thought. You die suddenly, and your loved ones get no sense of closure. Death is only easy on the dead. It’s hardest on those left to mourn. 

My Uncle George died suddenly Friday. He was talking with my aunt, she went upstairs for a bit. When she returned, George was slumped over. Seventy-seven sounds young anymore. Age always does when it involves people you have known most of your life. I was stunned. 

I can only imagine what Aunt Carol and cousins Christie and Caroline (along with half-cousins George Jr. and Jessica) are feeling after such an unexpected loss. I wanted to be there for the funeral, but making last-minute flight arrangements from halfway across the country rarely works out easily anymore. My two-job life moved the chances to impossible. 

From my time around George, I remember his generosity the most. We stayed with Aunt Carol, the girls and him for a few weeks many summers. They had more money than my family due to George’s successes as a businessman. They never once acted like it, and opened their doors every time we came to Connecticut after my grandparents’ house became a little too small. 

There was the house in Hopewell Junction, New York, atop a small hill, with broad meadows and forests. The main house was large, a pool sat down the hill. But most importantly, a small guesthouse stood across a courtyard from the main house. Those were among my best summer memories as a child. 

George had an impish side. As a kid, it was always nice to see that spirit in an adult. Back in August 1986, the last time I saw my grandfather alive, George jumped in the powder blue Mercedes with him, my other uncle and my grandmother. We had no idea what was going on. They sped off down the hill to leave Hopewell Junction. Twenty minutes later, we spotted George darting among trees as he came out of the forest. They dropped him off down the street, and he intended to surprise us if we hadn’t spotted him first. 

Often, the little moments define people are the moments aren’t meant to see or when we think other people aren’t looking. One summer, I remember George’s son George Jr. came home from a hard day. He was angry and swearing up a storm. Before he could vent in front of anyone, George took his son aside and said something along the lines of, “You’re frustrated, I get it. But try not to swear around the kids.” All the tension dissipated. I wasn’t supposed to see that, but his way of handling the situation stuck with me. 

When George became a developer, I always liked when he would show me the houses he built. In the houses in which they lived, he built secret rooms, accessible behind bookshelves. The houses he built elsewhere had a different feel, but still had character. I never had a nose for real estate, but I could tell he prided himself on showing what he had done in Ridgefield, the town where he graduated high school and lived most of his life. Plus, I felt as if the attention he showed when I was young deserved payback, that I should give a little attention to what drove George. 

When my grandmother died in 2009, we stayed with Carol and George once again. While the family was discussing who would give the eulogy, George volunteered with an impish grin. Aunt Carol gave him a look that told everyone there was no way that was happening. Grandma inspired a lot of mockery from her sons-in-law (George and my Dad) and the tales either would have told might not have been suitable for a eulogy. These are just sketches of a man, I admit. 

I had not seen Uncle George since grandma’s funeral. I spoke with him on irregular occasions but I was never a regular presence in the life of him or his family. Others knew him more deeply. I wish the distances had not grown so great that I saw so little of them. But that’s what happens in life too often. George left behind Carol, his wife of nearly 42 years, four children, and seven grandchildren. The wake and funeral drew hundreds. There lies a legacy hard to eclipse. 

In the end, I had only good thoughts of George. For me, there’s a legacy of simple gestures, of giving some attention to a kid stuck in a loop of lonely Connecticut summers. .