LOST YOUTH

I am sixty-eight years old.

But I remember August 6, 1968 like it was yesterday.

That was the day my Uncle Al died.  He was forty-two, a New York City cop. Our whole extended family was on vacation at a small house my mother had purchased in Highland Lakes, NJ with her share of the proceeds from the sale of our family home in Brooklyn.  That home had been sold after my parents separated and we moved in with my grandparents. Uncle Al had spent the first week of his vacation painting the new house with my grandfather. On the weekend, however, he woke up sick and had to go to a doctor.  

The doctor immediately put him in the hospital.

A day later he was moved to another hospital.

A day after that he died.

The hospital was not that close to Highland Lakes so my mother and Aunt El were staying in a motel near the hospital.  The hospital called at 5 am and told my mother, who was a nurse, that they had to come over quickly.  When they got there, they were told Uncle Al had died.  They drove back to Highland Lakes and told the rest of us -- my grandmother, grandfather, sister and cousin, Uncle Al's oldest son. His other son, the baby John, was a year old in his play pen.

It was a gut punch to the entire family.

My forty-two-year old aunt had lost her husband of eighteen years.  My twelve-year old and baby cousins had lost their father, my sister and I our uncle and the guy who in many respects had become a surrogate father given our mom and dad's separation.  My grandmother had been through two wars and raised her own (and a good chunk of her extended) family in the when-there-was-no-safety-net Depression.  She was a rock.  

But that day she just kept crying.

Our big Irish-Catholic family held a wake and a funeral. It was and remains the biggest I've been to. After the funeral Mass, a two-block line of cars moved slowly from the church in Brooklyn to the cemetery at Pinelawn in Suffolk County. At the wake, lots of men had promised my cousin they'd take him fishing. He and his father had loved to do that. They'd wake up at 4:30 am and head out to Sheepshead Bay to catch a 6:30 half-day charter for fluke or bluefish.

After August 6, there weren't any fishing trips.

When President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, a reporter, Mary McGrory, told Daniel Patrick Moynihan "We'll never laugh again."  Moynihan replied "Mary, we'll laugh again, but we'll never be young again."

Actual tragedy is weird.  It's not like history, where you know the future. It's more like perpetual uncertainty.  You know it's bad but you have no idea how all that badness will play out. There's a sense of emptiness.

That's how I felt on August 6, 1968.

It's how I felt yesterday, November 6, 2024.

America will never be young again.