My cousin passed away last year. He was my oldest cousin,
and his passing was a frightening reminder of how quickly the years eventually leave
us all behind. He was our oldest cousin, and I always looked up to him. After all, he was a “college
man” when I was still a child. His father was a very talented man who worked
as a graphic artist and also played guitar in local jazz bands.
I’m afraid my Cuz was affected by his father’s talent in a
negative way. My uncle cast a big shadow, and J never fully emerged from its
gloom. J was a very bright and outgoing young man in his own right, but he struggled
with career objectives, finally resorting to house painting to make ends meet.
He often talked about the book he was writing at family get-togethers; a story
of the 1960’s (which was the era he reveled in), and he never lost the love he
had for those turbulent times and the rebellious nature of the emerging new culture.
Indeed, I believed him to be a true Beatnik; forging his own path to fame with
the written word.
J seldom worked after suffering a debilitating injury one
day while painting. He still managed to get by one way or another. He married
twice, raised three children, learned to create airbrushed T-shirts, and in
later years returned home to care for his mother after his father’s passing. Talk
of his book ceased, although we all remembered he had been working on it.
I recently asked my father’s only surviving brother if J
actually did write a book at all, as his children found no manuscript when they
went through their father’s belongings after his memorial service. He told me
that he had indeed seen it, but J would not allow him to read even a word of
it. We both reasoned that he must have thrown it away, or destroyed it in a
private ceremony of frustration and insecurity.
“What a shame!” I replied. Within those pages were the
thoughts and feelings of an intelligent and honest man, who experienced
considerable trouble finding his way (due to factors that none of us will ever
understand). I always felt he lived his live as it was still 1967 (new millennium
notwithstanding). So deep was his love for the era, that his pages must have
been filled with characters and events we will never witness, from a
perspective we will never see.
Everyone leaves a legacy of some kind; a miserly rich man
who refuses to help anyone in need, a father or mother of six who raise happy and
successful children despite overwhelming odds, a record-breaking athlete, who
thousands wish to emulate…the list goes on and on.
J’s legacy was one of kindness, of humor, of eccentricity,
of three wonderful children, and the children of theirs…so he will live on in
people’s hearts and minds for decades to come. And his DNA (though continuously
diluted) will continue to populate the planet for all time. But the legacy of
his written word has been lost forever. It does not matter if his book became
required reading in educational institutions one day. If his work affected even
one person in a positive fashion, it would have been worth the painstaking
effort he put into it.
I am not afraid to let people see my work (although I felt
like a stranger was picking up my newborn child for a while when I first printed my
manuscript). But by the time it was published, that trepidation was replaced
with pride. I did something that many talk about, but few accomplish. And it is
a legitimate piece of who I am as a person. It is my legacy, and although it may
disappear over time in its physical form, it may make a positive impact on thousands
I will never meet in the meantime. So I abandoned my reservations and put it
out there. This is part of my legacy. I will never regret it.www.happybaynovel.com
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