They reach out to me periodically about my High School experience. Woodrow Wilson High School, Long Beach, California. Sometimes I click a link to look through a few pictures and see if there is anyone I recognize. I don’t. Can I recognize a name? I can’t. Except this time. Right there, the first picture in front of the class of ’63 was cousin Ed.
In remembrance. In his truck. It was good to see him again.
Seeing the picture was a surprise, but I already knew he had died earlier in the year. Until then we still kept in touch. In all of my living memory, there was always cousin Ed. Our families got together regularly. Aubrey and Ethelen, his parents. Aubrey was my mom’s older brother. Ed and Tom. Brothers. They were each my age. Ed was six months older. Tom was six months younger. I was always closer to Ed. We were in the same grade at high school. Tom passed away as a young adult early in life a long time ago.
Ed and I were kids together in the same town. He visited us in Colorado when we lived there. We visited him in Las Vegas when he lived there. He visited us in Washington State. At his houses in Las Vegas and in Pennsylvania we met some of his extended family. He never had biological kids of his own, but by way of wife Diana was fully immersed in family. He became father, grandfather, great grandfather, and even great-great. He was surrounded by and immersed in family.
Never normal. Always a character.
