The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day Six

On the Sixth Day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe Gave to Me

Six decades of Fairbank
Five bits and bobs
Four reasons to save 68 CDs
Three balls a-rainin'
Two more automotive wormhole websites
And a bald guy and some random hor-seys

In the spirit of the holiday, at least our little holiday, here's a remembrance that hits on the things that matter to Gheorghies of all ages, courtesy of FOG:TB Dave Fairbank. May we all spend our time focusing on this stuff, and not the batshittery whirling around us at seemingly unstoppable pace.

At least once a day, I stop and give thanks for the life I lead and the place I live. I am grateful and blessed beyond anything I imagined as a younger man. I have a permanent address in one of my favorite places on Earth – or at least as permanent as possible in a time of climate change, rising seas, and a thin-skinned, lying kleptocrat with access to the nuclear codes. It’s because of four people: my wife, my parents and my maternal grandmother. They’re the reason I am who and where I am, and why I’m in the next chapter of my life, even if I haven’t yet figured out what that entails.

Bob and Ruth

Start with my folks. Bob and Ruth were Bawl’mer natives who met after World War II and married in 1950, eventually moving to the wilderness south of Annapolis, where my sister and I grew up. Bob was a businessman who passed along none of those genes to his son. He was good-natured, slow to anger, and patient to a fault.

By the time he reached my age, Bob had raised two kids, helped build a small business, and founded a youth athletic association so that his rag-armed, no-hit offspring and his schoolmates would have an outlet. He served on business and civic boards and was respected in the community. Me, I wrote about Chuck Swenson, collected Muddy Waters albums, and trained our dog to sit.

Ruth quit work to raise my sister and me, and to keep house. She was quieter and more reserved than Bob, but she laughed often, joked that she could have been a barfly in another life, and possessed strength and toughness that I saw as I grew older. She likely inherited those qualities from her mother, a flinty, demanding woman who divorced her husband in the 1930s and raised two children on her own.

Bonnie loved her family and baked exceptionally mediocre chocolate cakes. She was as private as a Swiss bank vault, to the point that even my mother and uncle knew few details of her life and affairs. She worked as a secretary for decades and lived modestly, scrimping and saving and investing. When she passed away at 93, to the family’s astonishment she had amassed an estate of well over six figures.

Bob would have embraced me going into business at the company he helped run, but he never pushed me. In fact, he and my mother always encouraged my sister and me to pursue our own interests. Find something you enjoy, he often said, because then it doesn’t feel like work.

Bob passed away in 2006, Ruth four years later. I tell people that Bob had a great run and a shitty ending. His death was due to Alzheimer’s, a damnable condition that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. His decline was heartbreaking, particularly for my mother, who watched the man she knew and loved fade away over several years. He didn’t recognize any of us in the final months of his life and needed assistance for the simplest tasks.

(Back, L-R) Brother-law Bill, sister Sandy, Bonnie, Suzanne, FOGTB Dave
(Front, L-R), Ruth, Bob

Ruth contracted cancer a couple of years after Bob died. She endured chemotherapy and radiation treatments that my sister and I could tell kicked her ass, but rarely complained. The treatments didn’t erase the cancer, but she wanted no part of a second round. Where Bob’s decline was gradual, Ruth’s was precipitous. She went from home to hospital to hospice in a matter of days. She passed away exactly one year after my wife’s mother died. Jan. 13 isn’t a great day for us.

Suzanne and I met at the newspaper where we worked. We’ve been married 20 years and together for 25. She has an empathetic heart, an infectious laugh and a keen B.S. detector, valuable given the amount of dumbassery to which she’s subjected under our roof. We’ve been coming to the Outer Banks for years, first separately, then together. We entertained vague notions of relocating here, but nothing concrete.

Ruth knew of our affection for the OBX and told us repeatedly, during Bob’s decline: Don’t wait; if there’s something you want to do or a place you want to go, don’t wait because nothing’s guaranteed. She regretted that she and Bob held off on travel plans, and then his condition made them impossible. After Ruth passed, with her advice ringing in our ears and a few extra dollars available, we scraped together enough for a downpayment on a house at the beach. We scooted to the place often for brief stints, but our relocation timetable remained fluid. When Suzanne took a buyout during one of the paper’s purges and mutations, that indirectly began turning wheels. She worked part-time while I remained at the paper. I might have continued slogging along, chronicling various Tribesters, Monarchs and Pirates, but Suzanne prodded just enough to make me reconsider. I decided 30 years was enough, and if we were going to do it, giddyup.

With a small cushion and no definite plan, we took the leap two years ago, believing (hoping?) we’d figure it out once we arrived. We’ve discovered that the Outer Banks is a beautiful, unforgiving place whose year ‘round population is comprised of hardy souls with useful skills – and me. Suzanne landed a full-time gig (Yay! Bennies!), which has allowed me to freelance and to undergo doctors’ visits and medical procedures that haven’t broken the bank. I don’t tell her often enough how grateful and fortunate I am that she’s carrying more of the load, a shortcoming I will address going forward.
I don’t know what the next phase looks like for me, but I do know that gratitude will be a regular part of the journey. Too often, we didn’t thank those who made our lives and opportunities possible until after they were gone. Too often, we don’t tell those who shape our lives now how important they are. In challenging times, it’s the most human thing we can do.