Fifty years ago, I was four and a half.
Fifty years ago, I learned that people die.
By that age, I knew what death was; I had already experienced the death of a loved one. One morning our cat, Cricket, dragged herself home, wounded beyond repair, crushed and half blind. My parents put her down. My mother explained it to me. We stood in the sun on our neighbor’s back porch, looking out over the salt marsh that Cricket loved to prowl. The air was warm and filled with the scent of salt and kelp. My mother stood behind me and told me of the wounds Cricket had suffered. She put a hand over one of my eyes to show me what it would have been like for her. I was saddened by it, of course–Cricket and I had a special bond; she trusted me enough to have her litter of kittens under my bed–but the way my mother explained it, I could see that it was a necessary thing. She was suffering, and the only way to end that suffering was to end her life. It was an act of love, an action not taken lightly.
But fifty years ago, I learned that people could die, too.
At that time, beyond my parents, my friends’ parents, friends of my parents’, and teachers, I knew of only two adults: Walt Disney and President Kennedy.
Fifty years ago today, President Kennedy died. Within the year, my mother would die. Shortly after that, Walt Disney would also be dead.
Those three deaths affected me profoundly. The grief born of that triple loss colored my outlook for decades; it affects me still, to be honest. From my place here on the far side of that tragic education, I can’t tell you how I am changed, only that I am changed.
Looking back fifty years, I remember that I was brought home early from school. I remember adults weeping, men in tears, a thing I had never seen. I felt infected by their grief, swept along by the current of their emotions. I had little concept of what a President was, but I knew who he was, and a few days later, when we watched the funeral on our small television, when I saw that riderless horse fighting the reins, fractious with distress, it all hit home.
People die, too.
Love them while you can.
k
In our push toward a multicultural society, Americans have lost sight of our individual past. In our rush to be democratic, we have lost our sense of dignity. In our urge to be open, we have lost our appreciation for ritual.
To those of you who left comments and sent me notes of condolence, my thanks. They were very much appreciated in a particularly difficult time.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 