One Thursday afternoon in August when I arrived for our evening together, Mom handed me a little packet of papers with a simple explanation: I found these in your dad’s desk and thought you might be interested. Over the past year she has persevered in sorting through everything in the apartment and finding what he saved that could now be discarded.
Dad saved almost everything, at least as far as documents are concerned. Window stickers and bills of sale for all the cars he bought, back to the early 1960’s. Wow, the Dodge cost WHAT? Interesting, but not really worth keeping now.
The packet mom gave me had several photos, including one I had taken in about 1975 of Dad at the wheel of his red Fiat Spider. Now you know where I got my fascination with cars. That is a keeper.
There were all my report cards – from college. Schools used to mail those to the parents of the undergrads, back in the day – can you imagine the gall? I knew it happened but did not know that each semester’s grade sheet included a hand-written note. I was shocked to see that all my freshman grades were accompanied by remarks from the president of the university! After that, it was a dean who would add an observation. Who knew these people were watching me?
In the mix was a baptismal certificate, judging by the date obtained as I began preparation for Confirmation, as well as a copy of the church bulletin from the day of my baptism that listed all five who were baptized. From the certificate, I learned something I had not known, that the priest who baptized me was Father John Crawford. Give me a minute here while I add his name to my All Souls list; done. I also learned that the date I had in mind for my baptism wrong; I was off by four days. September 20 makes far more sense since that was a Sunday back in 1964; I was twenty-three days old.
Also listed were my godparents, John and Ceci Eichenlaub. Uncle John is mom’s older brother, and Aunt Ceci (neé Spinola) is my only Italian relative. After nine years living in Rome I now say that I am Italian by adoption; she does not object. They lived nearby, busy with their three boys. We were the ones who moved away after a few years to the distant and unknown South.
Aunt Ceci and Uncle John came to visit us there, once. They came to my college graduation in Virginia, which was a great effort for them and great delight for me, and years later to my priestly ordination in Washington. Despite their lack of enthusiasm for travel, they came once to Rome during my second assignment there and I was able to show Aunt Ceci the home of her parents and grandparents. That was immense fun.
I always enjoyed visiting with them. Occasionally we would overlap at the Eichenlaub cottage on Lake Erie, a happy place for them all their lives. More often I visited them at their home, stopping any time I rode the Turnpike east or west. Aunt Ceci would ply me and Uncle John with food in great quantity and variety while he regaled me with his latest discoveries about the history of our family, a result of the genealogical research that he took up in earnest after retirement. One time he and I got in the car and visited several cemeteries to find the graves of diverse generations and branches of our family, including his own parents, only one of whom lived long enough for me to meet him, and he only a few short years thereafter. He knew I would like that.
Uncle John died quietly this past weekend, two months shy of his ninetieth birthday, after diminishing through a long series of issues and illnesses. I’ll be slipping away midafternoon Sunday to drive up to Pittsburgh for the funeral. I just wrote his name on my All Souls list, too, which is more than a paper for me to leave tucked inside my desk.
Monsignor Smith
