It never gets any easier.  I’m not unique.  That dreaded phone call from a relative or family member you haven’t been in touch with for awhile.  The awkward first couple of sentences.

Two weeks ago our phone rang.  It was the wife of a great friend of mine from Texas.  John had been sick, but was responding to treatments from all reports.  He had taken an abrupt turn for the worse.  There was no chance for a rally.

The news elicited the predictable reaction, but coming on the heels of so many other recent tragic events, it had an even deeper impact on me: I am class secretary for Andover 1951, and will report the passing of two more of our number in the next Andover Bulletin; the daughter of one of my best friends recently died at age 45, leaving her husband and five children, twins age 5, the oldest age 16; and the shocking news that the 17 year-old grand daughter of another old friend was in a comatose state after collapsing at lacrosse practice.  Staring 78 in the eye next month may also be having an effect on me.

Sometime ago I wrote the piece below — “Awash in a World of Why” — a look back at a tough time in my life.

I’m one of the luckiest people on earth.  I suffered a great loss early in my life, but was able to  move on, with great help from my amazing wife and best friend, Dorothy.   We have been married 46 incredible years, blessed with two great kids Jennifer and Graham and presented with 4 grandchildren, ages 5 to 10, by Graham and his lovely wife Paulette.

As always, thanks for reading…

George S.K. Rider

AWASH IN A WORLD OF WHY

Dickie Gunther nudged the red-hulled 30-foot skiff “Socks” against the bulkhead at 32 Maple Avenue, my grandfather’s house.  I tied up the bow and stern and then helped Mom, Boatswain, her black Lab, and Ivan and Gwennie, our poodles, up on to the lawn.  Dickie handed the luggage and food boxes to me.  Mom put the three dogs in the car as we were unloading.  We had just returned from the beach.

Gramp’s wife Ruth came to greet us, almost running.  She blurted out. “Oswald has been shot!”

The date was November 25, 1963.  The news was like another punch in the stomach.  My wife Betsy, age 29, had died at Sloan Kettering on November 14th.

In the space of elevn days, I had buried my wife, witnessed on TV the death and tumult surrounding the assassination of John Kennedy, and now this.  The world, my world was awash in death and violence.  I was still numb and grappling with Betsy’s passing, existing in a kind of suspended animation.

Memories kept racing through my mind.  Five wonderfully happy years, the diagnosis in the late summer of 1962, the cobalt treatments in the spring and summer of 1963 and Betsy’s last hospital stay in the fall, September 9th until her death November 14th. “Stop! Stop! Take a deep breath.”  I had to get a hold of myself.

Dad and Mother asked me what I wanted to do after the funeral.  All I could think of was our dogs.  I wanted to be with them and I wanted to be at the beach.

The funeral, all the young people, our friends, some from after our marriage, friends from school and college, friends from pre-school days, all devastated by her passing.

The day was hot for mid-November.  There was no wake.  The service took place at 11:00 AM on Saturday, presided over by her father’s Rabbi.  The Minister from our church, St. Peters, in Long Island and a Yale classmate of mine Corky Peterson participated.  Family members and close friends carried the casket.

After the burial, everyone was invited back to her parents’ house, Ruth and Dave Waskowitz.

I was running on nerve endings.  The busier I was, the faster my mind raced.  It was surreal.  Now, no tears.  I was everywhere, talking consoling, getting drinks.  No thoughts of what had just happened or what was to come.  For several hours, I was like a wind-up toy.

People began to leave.  Then it was just family.  We were all physically and mentally exhausted.  I was snapped back to reality by an innocent gesture that has stayed with me for 47 years.

My nephew, Billy Waskowitz, age 5 and his younger brother Bobby had been so well behaved throughout the long day, not quite understanding the enormity of the occasion, but grasping some of its significance – the highs of the party-like atmosphere, silhouetted against the tears and sobs of the quiet times.

As the crowd thinned, I was standing in the dining room at the head of the table after taking some dishes to the kitchen.  All of a sudden, I felt a tug on my pants.  Billy hugged my leg, looked up at me and said, “Uncle George, I’m so sorry Aunt Betsy died and went to heaven.  We’re going to miss her.”  That beautiful moment was the beginning of the healing process.

My brother Ken and his wife Janet drove Mom and Dad back to Long Island that night. I drove down the following day.  Mother and I, Boatswain, Ivan and Gwennie sailed for Lonelyville the next day.  They had arranged for three of my best friends to join us at intervals: Richard Haskel, Al Van Nostrand and Joe Callahan.  Long walks on the beach, surfcasting, TV, cards at night, bridge if we had four.  I hadn’t slept through the night for days.  The salt air began to work its wonders.

November 22nd, an incredibly warm day, Joe and I were surfcasting.  I was actually wading out to cast.  Mother was walking the dogs on the beach.  No one was in sight.  I had just caught a nice five-pound blue.  All of a sudden, we heard someone screaming. We turned to see a high school friend, Jerry Jerome, standing on the over-walk to the beach, calling to us, ”The President has been shot! The President has been shot!”

We didn’t understand at first, but the upset in his voice left no doubt that something dreadful had just happened.  We gathered up our gear and headed back to the house.  Dad had just turned on the TV.  The drama unfolded from there.  When Walter Cronkite announced that President Kennedy had passed, Dad quietly got up, walked outside to the flag-pole, and lowered the flag to half-mast.  What was happening?  The world seemed upside down again.

Just as I was beginning to come to grips with the loss of Betsy, the whys of events surrounding the Kennedy assassination sent me back into the dark hole that I had just started to exit.

Billy’s hug was one real thing I could cling to and understand.

Recalling the events of 47 years ago has somehow helped me cope with this bad patch and the recent loss of so many dear ones.  Spring will finally arrive and the sounds and sights of grandchildren splashing in the water will help the hurt.