A part of me is lost . . .
I am of that age where I am losing relatives. The previous generation are naturally in their 70s and above. They have run the race, they have kept pace and now the finish line for this phase has come.
Both of my grandmothers, the strongest influences in my life, left within the past decade. So did my Aunt Mary, my godmother. My own father was an exception; he left early, while still in his 40s. His older brother, Mike Siroky, died 14 months ago.
This week, my Aunt Betty died. She was Uncle Mike�s wife.
I always thought of her as a genteel lady. She seldom
cooked. Married
into a family of
great cooks, from
main-event meat
dishes to unbelievably grand desserts, she simply didn�t compete. The working joke between myself and my Grandmother Siroky was always, when I visited my uncle�s home, that I would say to my grandmother, �You wouldn�t believe the meal Aunt Betty made for me! I am so stuffed.�
My grandmother would arch an eyebrow, give me that look that let me know she knew I was swimming with the sharks when I compared culinary efforts, and basically tell me in Slovak I should be ashamed.
My Uncle Mike was a tall, stately man. He carried himself well. With confidence. He was always a leader in any organization. Like my own dad, he had a lifetime of work in the steel mills that dotted their hometowns in the Monongahela Valley south of Pittsburgh. My dad started in Duquesne works and moved with the growing industry to Gary Works. We are the western branch of the Siroky tree. Both he and my Uncle Mike were foremen for U.S. Steel.
My Uncle Mike stayed home, a city north of Duquesne in Munhall. He always reminded me, in a strangely comforting way, of one of the captains in �The Godfather� movie., Not Clemenza, the happy fat guy. The other one. Maybe a special agent of the FBI. He had that effect on people. Unless you knew the jokester inside, he could be intimidating. I always saw through it (or he let me) and I know he liked that.
They were first-generation Americans. So was Aunt Betty. She came from the Leskanics of Slovakia.
Their home in Munhall was, to me, a stately mansion. Fireplaces in every room. Good dark brick and incredible wood finishes. Their children, my cousins, are a little older than me. Bobby, the oldest surviving Siroky now, is 12 years older than me. My dad was like an older brother to him more than an uncle. I have this picture of my dad with a young Bobby and that�s what they look like, older and younger brother. Bobby was the one we always wanted to be when we grew up. He had a car. He was good-looking. He had quite a life, once even selling U.S. made computers from Pittsburgh back to the newly opened markets in the Czech Republic and Slovakia,
Marcy and Betty Ann, their daughters, were also a little exotic older kids to me. They were in high school when I was in grade school and they were like the princesses of the kingdom -- with my other older girl cousins -- when we made the annual family trek back to our version of the �old country.� Duquesne. We�d use my dad�s two weeks of vacation and pack a year�s worth of catch-up into it. They never treated me like a kid.
I would not know who I am today if not for those yesterdays. And I didn�t even realize what I was learning.
The trips to Munhall were great. My Uncle Mike, always a teaser with a very dry wit, was always happy to see me. My Aunt Betty would always call me �Michael� and is one of the few people who I never minded using the proper name. I�ve been a Mike all my life. My own mom calls me Mike. My Aunt Betty would never call me Mike. And, when talking, to me at least, she always used �Your Uncle� instead of her husband�s first name, so as to not confuse the conversation.
My Uncle Mike would delight when I sent him business cards with �Mike Siroky� embossed on them from my various stops along life�s trail.
He�d put them in his pocket and casually pass them out a Slovak Club card game or a church gathering and sell the idea he was an editor in Knoxville, Tenn., or Crown Point or Hammond or South Bend. Some of his cronies would buy it, and look in wonderment how this 70-something retiree could also hold down a job as an editor in Indiana.
Betty would sell it to. She had this endearing sincerity about her. Never told a lie.
When someone of that generation passes, I feel two emotions. One is it is up to me, my generation, to carry on the idea we are making a better world for our children as they made for us, The second is part of me has died as well. My history was written through their lifework.
When I brought my bride back to meet them all, for approval in a way, they were delighted. My Uncle Mike made the drive to his mom�s house to see us. My cousins always said he seldom made a midweek trip unless something big was up. We shared more than a name. He knew too well what it meant to lose a father early on., His own dad, the first Mike Siroky, died in his 40s. When my dad did the same, we had that shared life experience.
My uncle Mike died 14 months ago. Aunt Betty had been in failing health. She was mostly in a wheelchair. They had survived the death of one daughter, Marcy, to complications of multiple sclerosis. She had run the race, kept pace and now it was her turn to finish
I imagine them together again, with my grandmother still in charge of the show, but her and Mike in a better place. I always look to the stars when I hear of the passing of a predecessor. I imagine one of those stars in brand-new, shining down on me with a protective glow. As I drove home the night I heard the news, sure enough there was a starlit show above. And I know one of the stars winked at me.
I just know it.
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