AFTER STARTING ANEW
Chapter Forty-One
June 20, 1965
I am sitting here surrounded by piles of
neatly kept journals, the vigilantly kept record of our family since 1913. Two
other women before me have been the caretakers of this seemingly mundane
chronicle of everyday life in America over the past fifty-two years. While not
a prize-winning work of fiction, these heartfelt, simple words bring to life
the joys and sorrows, the pain and celebrations of one special family. Our
family. The Dawsons.
It is past two in the morning and I have been
sitting up here in the warm attic for four hours, fascinated as I have read
entry after entry. I’ve wept and laughed and in my mind’s eye have been able to
picture so many of the scenes, having been a member of the family for twenty
years.
I suppose I should introduce myself to the
reader. For someday, some other young woman or man will read these papers and
wonder what happened to the previous journal writer. I am Julie Dawson, wife of
Jack and Rose’s son Patrick. How we met is a long story and I’ll write about
that another time. For now I need to write about how I came to find these
books.
Three days ago, June 17, 1965, my mother in
law, Rose Dawson passed away. And tonight every member of her family (all
twenty-six of us) is squeezed into a bed, a couch and even the floor. Some of
the children are sleeping in hammocks on the screened porch downstairs. We
buried Rose today in a simple, elegant ceremony. The casual observer might say
that was just like Rose herself. Simple and elegant. They could not have been
more wrong.
After quietly observing Rose for twenty
years, hearing the stories told by her children and friends and now reading her
words I would guess that Rose would not mind if I added a few ideas about her
myself. Teasing temptress and vivacious vixen seem to be descriptions more
appropriate. No where in the world could one find a more gentle mother, loving
wife and compassionate friend. But deep in the heart of the real Rose lurked a
wild, exuberant human being. The flame red of her hair in her younger days and
the mischievous sparkle in her eyes could barely be concealed in the refined
demeanor of this intelligent person. That we will all miss her is a given. That
she has given us a precious legacy is still my secret. I found these books the
day before yesterday when looking for something for the funeral and for the
moment I just want to sit and absorb her wonderful stories. To be honest, if
one of her own daughters wanted to continue her work, I would not mind. For
right now however, I am selfishly guarding my little treasure.
Things are quiet here at the moment. We’ve
been through so much in the last few days. Rose died suddenly. Far too young at
age seventy. She left us peacefully in her own room, amongst her own things and
when we found her there was a gentle smile on her face. It was a massive stroke
for which there would have been no warning. In a sense it was a blessing. There
was not even an instant of suffering for her.
My father in law, Jack, was out when Rose
died. When he came home and was told of the news, we saw a man that we never
knew existed. Inside the shell of the vital, optimistic and strong Jack, lies a
broken man. He lived for Rose and she for him. When reality set in the only
noise in the house came from behind the closed door of their room. I can only
describe it as an eerie kind of groaning. Much like that of a wounded animal.
Several times we heard him pound his fist into the wall as he yelled for her.
He had wanted time alone, but we decided that he needed someone with him.
Only Frank and Patrick and myself (and our
children, of course) were here. We went to Jack and instantly we knew that the
man who had always been the solid rock upon which we all leaned, was now
nothing more than a helpless child. His bright blue eyes stared out at us
uncomprehendingly. He suddenly seemed older than his seventy-three years. We
comforted him in turns as best we could. There was much to do. Besides making
the arrangements, we had to round up our entire family. That in itself was a
daunting job.
The night Rose died, after they had taken her
remains away, Jack sat for hours on the porch, staring blankly into space.
Frank and Marjorie’s boys took our children to the movies. It was too
disconcerting for them to see their grandfather in such a state. The next
morning things were not much better. Like a robot he came down and went through
the motions of eating. The only sense of normalcy about him came when it was
time to pick out something for her to wear. We asked him several times if he
had a preference and he was silent. He came up here to the attic and returned
with an ancient looking dress. Both Molly and Edy, who were here by that time,
gasped and their eyes opened widely. Frank too seemed shocked.
It turns out that the dress was what Rose
wore while the Titanic was sinking. Jack felt it was appropriate. He told us
that when Rose wore that dress it was the first time he had ever complimented
her. He held it in his arms and then crushed the dress tightly against his
face. The smell of seawater, dust and a faint fragrance of perfume filled the
air, leaving to all our imaginations just what this poor man must be going
through.
Today, the day of the funeral, was a perfect
summer day. The brilliant roses were climbing on the fence, as if they did not
know that their namesake had gone to a different world. The grandchildren each
carried a flower and placed it on the casket, along with a spray of carnations
from all of us. We were dressed in our best, determined to show the world that
we were made of the same tough cloth from which Rose and Jack were cut.
Jack sat quietly between two of his
granddaughters. Patty and Jackie. They held his hands tightly and I believe
that for the sake of the rest of us, Jack knew that he needed to uphold the
decorum Rose would have expected of him. He only faltered once when we left the
graveside. He stumbled slightly and gave me a curious look. Then he glanced
back at the grave and said "You jump, I jump. Remember?" He recovered,
but I saw a tear roll down his cheek.
I hear something downstairs…
That was Jack that I heard. I saw him walking
in the yard. I was fearful, not knowing what he was about to do. He stopped in
front of Rose’s little garden that she kept up with her favorite flowers.
Actually they were Monet’s favorite flowers and Rose always said that she
worked that garden so they would remember their trip to Giverny. Anyway, I came
up to him and linked my arm with his. There was a glimmer of his old smile, but
he was silent. The air had been very still and suddenly there was a shift in
the temperature. A cool refreshing breeze blew across the yard. It lifted
Jack’s hair as if someone were blowing on it. A few flower petals scattered
softly on the dark soil. There was a rhythmic sway to the branches overhead. It
sounded very much like a five-syllable cadence.
Jack shook his head as if understanding an
unheard voice. "I’ll never let go either, Rose. I’ll never let go."
That is what he said, what he answered. Words that made no sense to me, but
obviously did to him. With that, he straightened up and looked at me. His eyes
were suddenly alert and the wraithlike expression was gone from his face. He
spoke to me again and said, "It’s not going to be easy, is it? But I’ve got
a family to think about. Come on, let’s go in." He walked up the path
ahead of me as I stood watching, wondering. Then I knew. I had absolutely no
doubt that in those few moments, we had been in the presence of the spirit of
Rose. And I think she told him in her own way that he had to go on for her, for
us.
Theirs was a mysterious kind of love. So much
was outwardly obvious, but there was much unsaid as well. They complimented
each other, just as much as they needed their own independence. I don’t think
any of us will ever understand them totally. I don’t believe that any of us
will ever know the whole story and part of it is gone now, forever. She waits
for Jack. I know that. She waits while he finishes his life. Like the final
touches on one of his paintings.