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Everybody loves a good family reunion story. I mean a
“real” family reunion story. I am not talking about those
annual gatherings where everybody brings a dish to pass and
there are games for the youngest, ice-cold watermelon for the
oldest, prizes for those who came the farthest, and the
“annual reading” of those who have been hatched, matched
and dispatched “since we assembled last.” To be sure,
those reunions are lovely. My wife comes from a family that
does one every year ... down Springfield, Ohio, way. And we go
every few years, whether we need it or not. Because whether we
know it or not, we do.
But
those are not the kinds of reunions that interest me today.
Instead, I want to talk about the coming together of people
who have been apart a much longer time ... some by choice,
others by accident. War came, and they got split up. Conflict
came, and they split themselves up. They lost touch with each
other. Then they lost track of each other. They didn’t know
where the other one lived. Then they didn’t know if the
other one lived. May have cared. May not have cared. Who can
say? Then one day there was a reunion. Orchestrated or
accidental. Painful or tearful. Brothers, reunited after 50
years. Parents and children who hadn’t seen each other since
birth, seeing each other now. A strange voice on the phone. A
strange face at the door. “I bet you don’t know who I am.
And after hearing who I am, if you tell me to go away and
never come back, I will. But I’m ...
”
I
like reunion stories. I suppose, because I hear so many of the
separation variety. I heard three in the last week. I heard of
a son, living in the same town, out of contact with his mother
for more than five years. A daughter who hasn’t seen her
daddy since the day of her wedding. A brother who didn’t
come to the funeral. Could have. Should have. Didn’t want
to. Flat out refused to. I hear such stories every week. I
hear them from you ... although these three didn’t come from
you. Trust me.
None
of this is without parallel in the Bible. While the people of
Israel preached family solidarity ... and while the stories of
Israel undergird what we commonly refer to as “family
values” ... the Bible is full of families that went their
separate ways and may (or may not) have gotten it back
together before “time and chance happened to them all.”
Abraham
and Lot. Jacob and Esau. Joseph and his many brothers. Amnon
and Absolom (David’s boys). The brothers in the Prodigal Son
story. They all took off and went their separate ways. As did
lots of others. To be sure, there are fewer Bible stories of
women splitting up and taking off. But, then, there are fewer
Bible stories of women, period. What’s more, economic
dependency in a patriarchal society tended to keep women
closer to home ... and closer to each other. Still, stories
abound of the first wife forcing the exit of the second wife.
And who can forget the older sister who stole her younger
sister’s husband on her wedding night (with the aid of a
conniving father and much-too-much wine). I can go on. But to
what end? Inch for column inch, there is more in the Bible
about family squabbles than about family values. It has never
been easy to care for kin ... at least, some kin. For while
blood may be thicker than water, it is not necessarily sweeter
than wine.
Kindly
allow me to illustrate. I do not come from a large family.
Neither do I come from a particularly close family. My mother
was an only child. My father was one of four. But all four are
dead. And the other three never had children. Meaning that I
have no cousins. My only sister died, a few days before I came
here. But she did leave me with a pair of nephews.
Fortunately, I married into a larger collection of people.
Otherwise the “family” portion of my Christmas card list
would be satisfied by buying one box every three or four
years.
Which
brings me to Wilbur. An unusual name, really. I haven’t
baptized a Wilbur, ever. I don’t know any Wilburs now. And
apart from the TV actor with the talking horse (Mr. Ed), I
can’t say that I ever recall many Wilburs.
But
Wilbur was my uncle. Let me explain. Earlier, I said that my
father was one of four. Fred, his oldest brother, was born in
1900 and died (still living at home) in 1946. I was six years
old. I remember Fred’s dying. But I do not remember Fred’s
funeral (leading me to suspect that I didn’t go). Which was
a bad decision on somebody’s part. Six year olds should go
to funerals. But that’s not the way things were handled
then.
Wilbur
followed Fred, born in 1906. And in 1909, there came the
twins, George and Marion. George was my father. He died in
1967. Marion died shortly thereafter. And from everything I
knew ... or thought I knew ... Wilbur was long gone before
either of them. Meaning that I haven’t had a reason to use
the word “uncle” or “aunt” for a long, long time. As
best as I can recall, I last saw Wilbur in 1953, when his
father ... my
grandfather ... William C., died. I was all of 13. And by that
time, I was deemed old enough to go to funerals.
Until
the late 1940s, Wilbur, like Fred, remained single and lived
at home. Then, for reasons long buried in history, he took off
for the Upper Peninsula where he met an older woman in
Negaunee and married her. Her name was Pearl. And the only two
things I remember about Pearl were that she had a loud, shrill
laugh and that she cooked every summer at our Methodist camp
in the Upper Peninsula ... the one called Michigame.
Wilbur
and Pearl reappeared in Detroit at the time of his father’s
funeral. Whereupon they moved into his mother’s house,
overstayed their welcome (in the mind of his younger sister,
Marion), got into it with somebody (probably Marion), and left
in a huff, never to be seen again. When his mother died, six
years later, Marion simply informed the rest of us that she
had attempted to locate Wilbur and that Wilbur was dead. Which
everybody accepted ... and nobody questioned. Truth be told,
nobody really missed him. Wilbur was a loner ... an odd loner.
His father used to call him “the governor.” When I once
asked my grandfather why he called Wilbur “the governor,”
my grandfather said: “Because he knows everything and thinks
he’s always right.”
This
spring ... 48 years after I last saw Wilbur ... my wife was on
the Internet doing ome genealogical research. Suddenly, a
dangling thread of information danced across the screen.
Following it, she learned that Wilbur died ... not in the
‘50s ... not in the ‘60s ... .but in 1992 in Iron River,
Michigan. Which first surprised me. But then saddened me.
Clearly, I never found him. Largely, because I never looked
for him. But, in part, because he had no interest in being
found. So what to do?
This
spring, we made a few phone calls and researched a few
records. We got Wilbur’s death notice from the Iron River
paper. We talked to the fellow who arranged for his funeral
and the lawyer who settled his modest affairs. Then, on the
day before the Fourth of July, Kris and I left our vacation
house in Elk Rapids and crossed the bridge into the Upper
Peninsula.
Iron
River is at the far end of the peninsula ... past
Manistique…past Escanaba ... past Iron Mountain ... past
Crystal Falls. It is a town that mining left behind ... but
that Wilbur found. Why he went there, I don’t know. But he
settled in there. Initially he lived at the county fairgrounds
where he mowed the grass and handled the maintenance.
Eventually he bought a house. Then another. And a third. And
in 1992, following Wilbur’s death, those three houses
(combined) sold for the grand total of $2,500.
Early
on, Wilbur put Pearl in a nursing home and walked to see her
every day until she died in 1968. Then, for 24 more years, he
rented out his houses ... delivered the Iron River paper ...
sold a few Watkins products ... and made lawn ornaments and
windmills out of orange crate wood that he salvaged from the
local supermarket. While at the market, he met Tony Fittante,
who stocked the shelves (as one of the three jobs that kept
him going). In Wilbur’s declining years, it was Tony who
gave him rides, delivered his groceries, kept him company, and
ultimately arranged his funeral.
Kris
and I had lunch with Tony and thanked him for the attention he
paid my uncle. Tony said: “I wish we had known more about
him. We never knew he had family ... never knew he once lived
downstate ... never saw a picture (or heard a story) of
anybody from his past.” It hurt to know that he never
acknowledged us. I can only surmise that he never missed us. I
suppose you could say that he disappeared. But the word
“disappear” would imply that somebody, somewhere, took
note and gave search. Sadly, we never did.
Upon
learning that I was clergy, Tony told me about one of his
other jobs which involved cleaning the Catholic church in
Caspian. Then Tony added: “Your uncle used to stop by and
talk with the priest from time to time. And I know he said his
prayers. But I don’t think he was a Catholic.”
Then,
as we were leaving lunch, Tony added: “Have you gone to
Joe’s? You’ve got to go to Joe’s. Most every day, your
uncle stopped by Joe’s.” So I said to Kris: “Do you
think we should go to Joe’s?” “Why not?” she said. So
we did. As you have probably surmised, Joe’s is a tavern.
You can find it on a street of houses in an old, old section
of town. Joe is dead now. His widow, Katie, runs the place.
She lives upstairs. Every day, she opens up about noon and
closes between six and six thirty. Katie is well into her
eighties and is missing more than half her hearing.
There
are a few tables and a few stools. There is also a black and
white TV (which “the regulars” say last worked in 1961).
And there is really nothing for Katie to sell except pop in
cans and beer in long-necked bottles. But of the ten people
there at 2:00 on the Fourth of July, at least eight of them
knew Wilbur. Except they knew him as Bill Ritter (his
father’s name ... my name). And they got a big kick out of
one Bill Ritter coming to look for another Bill Ritter.
They told more stories about my uncle Wilbur. I learned
about the only luxury he ever had (a Chevy Impala he drove
when he first came to town). I learned about the wagon he
pulled on his daily rounds, once the Impala was history. I
learned about the school kids who made fun of him, not so much
because of his beard, but because of his rigidly erect posture
that made him look like Abe Lincoln. And I learned that some
folks thought he was secretly rich because he mistrusted banks
and was known to carry his savings in his sock.
In
appreciation for all those stories, I bought a round for the
bar ... pushing a twenty dollar bill in the general direction
of Katie. I figured I’d have to supplement it some. But
after serving ten bottles to ten guys on ten stools, she gave
me a ten and five back as change. When I pushed back the five,
she told me I could come back anytime I wanted ... which
sentiment was roundly echoed by “the boys” as Kris and I
bid farewell and walked out the door. As for going back, one
wonders if we ever will.
So
why tell you? Three reasons. All of them short. As for sweet,
you tell me.
First,
I guess family is where you find it ... where they know your
name ... tell your stories ... recognize
your wagon ... buy your papers ... deliver your groceries ...
arrange your funeral ... and inform your preacher/nephew (when
he shows up 40 years too late) that you said your prayers. I
left, feeling as if Wilbur had been adopted by an entire town.
And while I didn’t have the faintest idea why he had decided
to become an orphan in his middle years, I am glad that, in
God’s great providence, there were people who took him in.
Could it be that “blood” is vastly overrated?
Second, blood does count for something. So if there is
anybody who is as lost from you and yours as Wilbur was lost
for me and mine, look for them. Make an effort. Pick up a
phone. Write a letter. Activate the Internet. Do something. I
know you’ve got a million reasons not to. And if you tell
those reasons to the guy on your right, the gal on your left,
the usher in the narthex, the person pouring punch in the
parlor ... even if you tell them to me at the door ... we’ll
listen to your reasons and find them compelling. But I have
this funny feeling that God will listen to your reasons and
find them stupid. How do I know that? Because my understanding
of the gospel is that “God was in Christ, reconciling the
world unto himself, and entrusting to you and me this ministry
of reconciliation.” Which means that every reason we offer
for sitting on our hands, probably strikes God’s ear as a
little bit stupid.
Third, if God really knows names ... if God really numbers
hairs ... if God really takes note of falling sparrows (which
is beyond my comprehension, but what do I know?) ... then no
one ever completely falls through the cracks. I forgot Wilbur.
Wilbur forgot me. But I suspect that God remembers us both.
And in God’s good time ... if not in either one of ours ...
I think there will be an opportunity to get it healed. So
I’ll just keep an eye out for somebody pulling a wagon who
looks like a governor ... or, better yet, President Lincoln.
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