A child of thirteen sits in a church pew with her family. She sees her aunts and uncles nearby. Many strangers with solemn faces fill the sanctuary. All of them have gathered at the funeral of an 80-year old man who had devoted his life in service to God and his fellow man. Some accounts later said the cortege spanned nearly a mile.
I was that child who, in 1966, lost the only grandfather she ever knew. More concerned with cousins and playmates at that time than an elderly man, she lived her own life, mostly unaware of family connections and concerns. Many years later, one of my cousins recorded and shared her findings about our family. Thanks to the curiosity of Wanita Potts Lavens, the Finch family has discovered its place in history, and fueled the curiosity of some of its descendants. My second cousin Kenneth Finch has also made exhaustive research on the Finches. A million times thank you, my dear cousins. Remembering family visits and occasions, especially the "Finch Kids" reunions is less of an effort, although some memories still come to mind after all this time. Photo albums tell a happy story in black and white.
I don't remember many specific interactions with either of my grandparents like those my Sister Diane has noted, although there was a general feeling of comfort and security present there in that house on Oakdale Road in Johnson City, NY. These were two people whose lives revolved around family meals and the comforts of home. Grandma took pride in two things: her gardens, and setting a bountiful table. She cultivated many indoor plants, among them an enormous Boston fern atop a plant stand pedestal of pale wood which, festooned with delicate feathery fronds, looked to me like magnificent green feathers coming out of the top. There were lacy doilies of filet crochet on the back of the couch and easy chairs, that would be rumpled from use, and were straightened again as if by reflex. Grandpa's paintings were on display on the walls and staircase railings, along with family photographs.
At every summer gathering, the table groaned with steaming ears of sweet corn. Grandpa stood his ears of corn on end and cut the kernels off with a sharp knife. Uncle John took out his dentures at table and licked them clean of kernels, to the exasperation of his mother and the entertainment of young family. Jellies and relishes in fancy little cut glass dishes were passed, along with bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy, with green beans and sweet peas from the garden, with platters of roast meats.
We walked down the road to visit cousins unchaperoned and without fear to see what our cousins were doing. My favorite place to be was at aunt Jean and uncle Wesley's. There was always something exciting happening. My sister remembers one occasion that Donna was sassing her father while being chased around the kitchen table, trying to catch her for discipline. We were horrified that she was getting away with it! Uncle Wesley smoked a pipe that smelled like cherries, how I loved it! Jean always spoke to me like a grownup, not a child, not to discipline me like my mother, but conversational. Her house was my particular favorite place to be, with its shady lawn and trees.
Uncle Stan and aunt Neva lived across the road and sometimes on my rounds I would drop in on them as well! They had a fluffy yapping little Pomeranian dog named Goldie that I never could get close enough to pet. The living room was very luxurious to my memory, and formal, and I seem to remember pale blue silk drapery.
There wasn't much physical affection from either grandparent that I remember. No pony rides on knees, cuddling in laps or stories read or anything like that. They were both regal and remote for the most part, very English. Grandma loved her teatime. I longed to participate. With a large family, there was so much work to be done in meal preparation and cleanup, mostly the adults talked among themselves while the children were left to occupy themselves without much hovering.
Despite all this, I remember an overwhelming sense of pride as I sat in the congregation at one of Grandpa's last sermons before he retired. Years later, I learned that he had started the Pilgrim News himself, writing scholarly articles of interest and about local church events, that is still published today. When I discovered he had given up his teaching career at Cornell University for a meagre minister's salary, many many times having to make ends meet and feed his family with what was in the Sunday morning collection plate, I thought about the sacrifice that was made to address the spiritual needs of others, and how he was truly a man set apart.
Now that I'm a grownup, I wish I had known him better. I have lots of questions about why he chose the path he did, the strength of will and his determination that held him on steady course all his life, his passion for his art and his birds, how he learned to build houses and churches, and about his own father and grandfather and siblings. But most of all, I wish to know how to emulate his devotion to goodness and high moral standards, and to always focus on the eternal instead of the temporal. He lived by the motto "Only one life, will soon be past. Only what's done for Christ will last".
-----with love, Grandma & Grandpa, your granddaughter, Patty Bush-----
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