Martha's Daughter's Diary - 2002

5 July 2002

I spent last night at the town's wonderful amphitheatre with my ex-husband's twelve year old daughter and my granddaughter listening to the philharmonic's patriotic renditions and watching an incredible display of Grucci fireworks (or "the big poppin' things" as my three year old granddaughter, Morra, called them). It was a lovely way to celebrate our independence. I spent much of the day thinking about my folks and my brother, too. When you suffer these losses, most occasions wreak of the bittersweetness of life. Since I found out about my brother George's death a few week's ago, frankly, I've thought of little else. The first few days were spent combing through cemeteries seeking his remains and listening to sad songs while driving endless miles alone in my six year old car. Not the stuff hit movies are made of. A woman in Canada had emailed me with Social Security Death Index information listed on the Internet. I don't really know Pam, but we consulted on similar surname searches for our genealogy research once or twice. I was shocked when I read her email, absolutely certain that it was a mistake. Then I received an email a little later on from my niece. Short and simple. "I'm sorry to not be in touch. And, I'm sorry to tell you my dad died. He was diagnosed with colon cancer in January, had surgery, and never made it to chemo." That email changed my life.

Despite the distance between us and his anger at some members of our family, I always loved George and looked up to my big brother. He taught me to play chords on the guitar, introduced me to yodeling records, Hank Williams, and listened to the angst of a teenage poet. He encouraged me to submit my work to publishers and pushed me not to give up despite boxes filled with rejection slips. He took me to see the original "Planet of the Apes" and pretended not to notice my embarassment over seeing Charlton Heston's bare behind on the technocolor screen. He took care of me when I was an infant as Martha was sick after my birth. He gave me my first rosary. He gave me my first bride doll and the bridesmaid doll and threw me twenty dollar bills many, many times during the years that my allowance was fifty cents per week. The fifteen years that separated us enabled us, I think, to appreciate one another in a different way. He was bright and talented. He was well-liked by people and soft spoken. He had a great sense of humor and we would discuss last weekend's Saturday Night Live. He had been a Josephite Brother. He had married a former nun. He had a wonderful daughter. He was my godfather and my daughter's godfather.

In the late 1970's an estrangement took place between George and my parents, between George and my whole family, and somehow I was caught in the crossfire. When I last spoke with him in October of 1985, he told me he loved me but that I wouldn't hear from him anymore because he couldn't pick and choose whom he would talk to in the family, that most of the issues were there long before I was ever born. I cried and cried. He stuck to his word, my big brother. After that conversation, I never heard from him again. From time to time I would mail photographs of my daughter or send invitations to get togethers, a holiday card, a letter, but I never once heard from him. And then I heard from a near stranger in Canada that my brother had died some three months before and that no one had told me. I hope he didn't suffer as much as I feel he may have. I hope that in his passing he found peace. And I do hope that someone who knows will sincerely take pity upon me and tell me where my brother's final resting place is so that I may, once and for all, say a solemn goodbye and farewell to the man who gave me so much in my early years and with whom for so many years I had hoped to revive the sibling relationship. It's hard to say goodbye, but even harder when you weren't told of your brother's passing, invited to the wake or the funeral, or given other chances to grieve and mourn. I hold this against no one, simply wish to say goodbye to my big brother and wish him eternal peace. Some friends are helping to find the information. Someone will be successful. Then I will know where my big brother is resting and I will say goodbye to him then. Goodbye, George. I will always love you and miss you and wish you well on your journey.

4 July 2002

Happy Independence Day! More than ever before, July 4th seems to have meaning and purpose. I'm so glad to see that I'm not the only person in my neighborhood who flies a flag anymore. For so many years, mine was the only house with "Old Glory" flying. It's marvelous to have company! My Dad, Edward, always flew the flag. We had a flag pole in our front yard that he made, and seeing the American flag flying always gave me the chills. Thanks, Dad, for sharing such patriotism with me. Many others were not so fortunate.

Another terror attack today? I don't think so. Sadly, I do believe that we will be attacked again, but not today. Most likely, we will be attacked when we least expect it. On September 11th I was in New York City, at a meeting at the United Nations. Not the best place to be when the USA is under attack. We were in the fourth sub-basement cafeteria, having a cup of herbal tea and planning our own strategy for the meeting. A television was on in the corner, and we heard yelling. Looking up, we say the WTC on fire. Someone was saying that a Cessna hit it. From the looks of the tower, I knew that was no Cessna. We stared at the screen for what seemed like an eternity, and then another plane, a second tower and my world was forever changed. Many people at the UN believed, at first, that the second plane hitting was actually a replay of the first plane, so they were calm and cool. As the reality permeated the group which had grown from 30 or 40 people to the hundreds, the enormity of the situation began to sink in. A man from Africa was shouting about Bush's policies and no one was listening to him. The room suddenly became quiet. And then we saw the Pentagon and Washington DC being attacked, heard stories of more planes in the sky. We tried to decide where to go as we felt the UN was not the best place to be. Suddenly CNN announced that the UN had been evacuated. Ut oh, we were still there. Had they forgotten us in the bowels of the building? Suddenly guards started telling us to "get out" and the evacuation was underway. Once out on the street, we were shooed away from this huge mass of glass and steel. We tried to decide where to go next and decided on Union Square. Thanks to an adept cabbie, we got there. We got money from the ATM, picked up food and water for lunch and went up onto the roof of the building to see the towers which were long gone by then. Communication was impossible. The city was locked down; I wondered just how long it would be before I saw my kids again. I wondered if I would ever see them again.

During much of this time I thought of my father, a WWII hero. How would he handle this? Could he help me to be safe? For the first time, I was grateful that my parents were gone. They didn't have to deal with this attack on America. Dad, with his awesome service record in China, India, and Burma, would have been trying to get back into his uniform. Mom would have been crying more than she was on December 7, 1941. I couldn't have handled their grief as well as my own.

Arriving home that night, I was never so grateful. But looking around at all the cars left behind at the Ronkonkoma train station, all the cars whose owners had vaporized in one moment of madness, my grief became overwhelming. The train ride was so quiet. Only those who were true survivors of the towers were talking; the rest of us listening intently, trying to reach out to them and to help with their pain. Most had been drinking, had spent hours in the bars until the train stations opened up to the commuters again and at last allowed us to go home. For hours and days and weeks, and quite truthfully to this day, I watch every single show, every single film clip of the attack, still fascinated by man's inhumanity to man, by the devastation of one citizenry on another and no way out for so many souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time on that fateful day. May God have mercy on them all. And, I know, that on one day in September and for this 4th of July, I am grateful that my mother is not here, grateful that my parents are not here, to see what has happened and to anticipate wholly what is next to come.

1 July 2002

I apologize to all those who have written to me at Martha's Kitchen requesting updates as well as to those who have requested memorials to their mothers on this site. Due to time constraints and problems with the discontinuation of my favorite web site creation program (aolpress), I've avoided updating the site. To everyone who has written, I thank you. I have read your emails and answered most of them personally. My heart goes out to you for your own losses. Truly.

It has now been five long years since Martha passed. On that first day I never thought I would survive one hour, let alone five years, without her. The truth is that I have survived, and in so many ways I have grown up, finally become the woman I was meant to be. How sad that she is not here to share that with me!

Sadly, my brother, Martha's firstborn son, George Fairweather, passed away in March. Ever sadly, I will miss the brother who had not spoken to me in more than 17 years. I always loved him. I am mourning him. More than that I cannot say just now, but be assured that more will follow.