August 2014

Editor's note - 2014 has not been a good year for me; before this post, I only had two blog entries for the year and they were both tributes to lost loved ones.  On the summer night described below, I was overwhelmed with the recent changes in my world and later felt it might be therapeutic to capture my feelings.  And so I decided to 'blog about it.  As usual, it took me some time to get my thoughts into words.  Reading it now, my description almost seems over the top, but the feelings were genuine and undeniable.  I hoped this process would help me make sense of where I'd been and where I was headed.

***

August 2014

Evening

My mother, for her own good, has just been placed in a nursing home in the town where she was born and raised.  Her partner of 60 years, my father, died 11 years ago. Dorothy has just plain kept going, with 3 artificial joints and a frame that hosted 11 babies. At this point her body is so worn out that doctor's orders have her confined to a wheelchair.  To make things worse, she's also lost touch with reality.  Despite all that, she lives on, confused and helpless.  Although she certainly has led a full life (she will be 90 in 2 months), this is heartbreaking.

I've been helping two of my sisters sift through my mom's belongings, assorted memories of a Midwestern child of the Depression.  It's apparent that she hadn't thrown a single thing away since roughly the spring of 1941.  I just left my sisters and I'm driving the 30 miles home, on the back roads, where there's no traffic and it's easier to unwind and reflect on what was.  And also to think about what will be.

At some point for me, memories started to mean more than tangible things, but I collected a couple of trinkets nonetheless.  I have my father's 1951 drivers license. 5-10 & 1/2, 153 pounds, already the father of 6 at the age of 30.  My father as a young man stares back at me through 63 years of time and space, impossibly thin, smiling, youthful, seemingly immortal.  I imagine that just outside the frame, in his right hand, he holds his ever present Winston.  Half smoked, it would send its vapor skyward.  And I wonder, at that moment, what he was thinking.  Had it occurred to him yet at that young age to contemplate his mortality, his legacy, his mark on the world, as I do now?

Picking through my mother's belongings earlier in the day, I read an entry in her diary from December, 1941: "we declared war on Japan".  The small, faded print betrays the significance of the event, both for her life and for the world.  This memory, too, will soon be dust along with everything else associated with my parents.

Any more, I only occasionally get a glimpse of my mother as I remember her, a rock in my life for the last 56 years.

Recently it's occurred to me - after your foundation, your base, is gone, what do you have left?

To make things worse, a sibling has now abandoned me, claiming I have betrayed her. It all started when I offered up an uncomfortable truth:  our mother was no longer safe living alone in her home. It went downhill quickly from there.  I had been a good brother to her and she had certainly been a good sister to me.   What I expected from her was a fair shake, nothing more and nothing less.

Unfortunately, squabbles have flared up between us siblings over the last few years, over my mom's living arrangements, over divvying up her belongings, over selling her car, and on and on and on.  My parents battled through the Great Depression and World War II to raise what amounts to a small tribe.  Along the way they saw us through illness, economic strife and countless other challenges.  For what?  So that we could all quarrel like children as adults?

Is this really happening?

Will there be anything left of my parents but memories?  Will there be anything left of the bonds with my brothers and sisters but memories?    What should I think life is all about, exactly, when I watch as my family comes apart at the seams?

Contemplating my parents' demise, I can't help but consider my own life, which not so long ago seemed to spread endless before me but which now seems to be playing out at triple speed.

My "little" brother, whom I've been close to since childhood, had a heart attack and bypass surgery right after the first of the year.  It was a close call that scared all of us.  My 2nd oldest sister, dear soul that she was, died in the spring.  Gone too soon she was, and she faced a most unpleasant and drawn out ending.  My mother, for all practical purposes, is gone.  Then there's the ex-sister.

It's all starting to pile up.  Rather than desperation, I feel more of a grudging and unhappy acceptance, of things I can't change. Depression, void of light and hope, envelops me.

So on this beautiful late summer evening, I pull off the road and watch the world go by.  While my engine idles and the crickets chirp, I contemplate my significance and I wonder;  If I do have a soul, what will become of it when I expire? And what difference have I made with my life, with regards to anyone, anywhere, at any time?

Really, what will ANYONE say was the meaning of any of our lives when we're all gone?  Would anyone ever pause to consider?

As I survey the landscape, even the blinking lights of the windmills seem to mock me, being all about the ongoing business of the present day world and the future.  And I am all about the past, a past which is proving to be insignificant and irrelevant.  And one which is fading, oh so fast.

'You will have your brothers and sisters in your life.  ALL your life.  They will never leave you.'  That was what my parents taught us, from the time we were children.  And now my estranged sister has taught me a different lesson: Our parents' dogma was bullshit.  Family actually IS disposable, and at the drop of a hat.

As for me and my siblings, the truth is that we've never really grown up, any of us.  We are now "adults", in adult bodies.  We have some accomplishments to our credit and we appear  "grown up".  Deep down though, we are the same people we were as children, in that tiny house on 2nd Ave.  And we are the same people we were as young adults in that big old house on 4th Ave.  The same insecurities, biases, selfishness and egos that made us who we were then STILL define who we are now.

We have spouses and children and grandchildren and jobs, gray hair, no hair, and everything else that goes with being an adult.  And still, we've not been able to escape our pasts as imperfect and immature children, no matter how hard we may have tried. Our flaws and conceits lie dormant just below the surface until stress and crises prompt us to reveal them, shamelessly and in full bloom.  Being human, it would seem, makes us helpless to change that.

So with all this sense of loss and hopelessness, where do I go now? A profound insight would be appropriate here but instead, I'll give you a simple confession:

I got nothin'.

This inescapable and profound sadness just won't go away.

Wearily, I put the Ford in gear and my flesh and my bones proceed to make their way home, at 60 miles an hour.  As for my soul, my essence and every living human being I hold dear in this world?   We all race headlong into oblivion.  At the speed of light.

***

Sylvia Adel 1944 - 2014

On Sunday May 18th I stopped to visit my sister Sylvia.  We had known she was dying for some time.  We spoke for about 15 minutes.  When she laid her head down to sleep, I told her I would leave as I knew she was tired.  As I walked out the door, our last words to each other were "I love you".  She never woke up.

Her husband Del was by her side for the last 27 years, as tireless companion, protector, caregiver, and best friend.  He took care of her like no one else could.  They were truly made for each other and I am so happy she found him.  Del's ticket to heaven was punched years ago.  Sylvia now awaits his arrival.

03/23/2014

Sylvia,

Happy Birthday! It occurs to me that I've never properly thanked you for the positive influence you had on my life.

I fondly recall the days of my youth and you had no small part in that. You were truly like a second mother to me. I won't speak for Dave but I'm sure he feels the same way. You always looked out for us and you always encouraged us (and whatever possessed you, I can only imagine!).

You were always buying us things that we really wanted but were unable to coerce mom into buying for us. I remember countless trips to the store in Walnut for school clothes for both Dave and I, financed by you. 

All I had to do was mention that I needed 20 bucks for something and your already spotless car would (surprise!) need a good wash/wax/vacuuming. And you let me believe that I had provided a needed service and "earned" the money.

Anytime I needed "wheels" you let me borrow yours and you always had a hot setup. I have fond memories of your 68 El Camino, 70 Chevelle, 75 and 77 Cutlasses, 79 Camaro. Always the coolest ride around.

For a brief period as an adolescent, I developed an improbable and inexplicable taste for parsley. Yes, parsley. Rather than chide me for my immature obsession, first chance you got, at a sit down restaurant, you ordered me a "side" of parsley. The waitress was gob smacked but I got my parsley. What sister EVER so indulged her snot nosed little brother? And what snot nosed little brother ever deserved it less?

And over the years as different crises popped up in all our lives, you always were there to help. No one ever had to ask you. You are the most selfless person I know.

And I guess more than anything, I remember your unwavering moral compass, undoubtedly the strongest I've ever seen. You have always been a great role model.

For all the love and attention you showed me, the truth is that I didn't deserve it and I have yet to earn it. But that never stopped you. You have been a great sister to me and for that I shall always be grateful.

For being you, I love you and I always will.

Pete

03-07-2014

Jan asked if I would share a few memories of Pete with you.

First, I have Pete's Top 10 List, compiled by the members of Pete's inner "posse".  You know who you are (and you should probably be ashamed!)

 ----- Top 10 things Pete would say -----

10 - “I said mix it up, not Muck it up!” football reference, obviously, edited for The Harvest Chapel

9 - “Let’s go to Vegas”

8 - “I seldom drink beer, but when I do I prefer to drink a lot of it”  I’m not sure the word seldom belongs here…

7 – “Oh come on, they’re ice cold”

6 - “Want to order a pizza?”

5 - “Sad is the A double S that doesn’t rejoice” use your imagination

4 – “It’s OK, I’ll do everything Jan” this was used for instance when Pete was preparing for a cookout and was already doing 200 things, then Jan asked him to do ANOTHER thing, Pete would answer with “It’s OK, I’ll do everything Jan”  then plod away, pretending to be downtrodden

3 - “What do I know, I’m just a Bricklayer”

2 - “Stick with the fat guy”

And the number ONE thing Pete used to say - “Just one more”

Thanks to the posse for compiling that list.

 ***

We gather here today to give thanks and to celebrate the life of Pete Sinetos.

Pete raised his boys to be 'stand up guys' and was the proud grandpa to their kids.  He taught Phil and Nick the masonry trade.  Nick chose to stay in construction while Phil became a Fireman and a Paramedic.  Pete was very proud of them, that fact came through every time he talked about them. 

Pete found Jan, the love of his life, about 15 years ago.  They adored each other and were in fact, inseparable.  They did everything as a couple and enjoyed every minute of it.  And as a couple, they were a sight to behold.  We are all thankful that they found each other and that they were so happy because they both deserved it.  Those 15 years were a gift, for both of them. 

Pete was sibling and dear friend to his brother Andy and his sisters Beth and Penny.  Seeing the Sinetos clan interact at a party was always a good time in and of itself.

Pete was a faithful son to his dad, Poops and his mom, Ya-Ya.  Poops and Ya-Ya lived with Jan and Pete before Ya-Ya passed away.  Unfortunately Poops is in Florida and couldn't be here today but he joins us via videofeed.

Pete was very close to his step children and their children.  They were brought together through Jan and kept close by what grew into true friendship, admiration and love.  ALL second families would be lucky to get along as well as they did.

Many years ago, I was out of work for a LONG, LONG time.  Pete was kind enough to offer me work as a laborer on a couple of his brick jobs.  For a guy like me who drove a desk every day, it was NOT easy and I'm quite sure I made a mess of it.  Those bricks are SO much heavier than pencils!  There were plenty of other, QUALIFIED individuals that Pete could have employed instead of me.  But Pete helped me out like I was his brother.  He didn't have to, but he did.  He helped a friend in need.  And for that I was always grateful. 

Pete would help ANYONE and he was famous for stopping along the road to assist any stranded motorist. That was the kind of guy he was.   Once he pulled a girl from her car as it burst into flames.  True story.  Another time he and another driver helped a girl in an accident escape via her sunroof. 

He was always quick to help, no matter the circumstance.  Three of Pete's pall bearers are brickies, trained by Pete himself.  Whether you were a relative, a neighbor, a co-worker, even a complete stranger, Pete was one of the best friends you could have.

A few memories I was asked to share with you -

Nick remembered that after singing a song, Pete would invariably ask - "pretty good, right?".  I remember one night we had a karaoke party and Pete fired off a rap song, stunning everyone.  And when he was done, he really was, “pretty good, right?”.  Also, in a group of guys, if an exceptionally attractive female came into view, Pete would signal for everyone to have a look with a simple "HELL-o!"  Guy code.  Same when two of his dogs got a little too friendly with each other.  "HELL-o!"  And he would always make a joke about his own "girth".

When Pete was doing the brickwork on Byron and Ashley's house and staying at the apartment they rented, they thought their house guest was  Partyin' Pete.  But he fell asleep in his chair every night.... at 8 o'clock!  Turned out it was Snorin' Pete.

And Stacy recalled when Pete was served red wine (not beer!) at a rehearsal dinner; he found it to be too warm.  So he "Pete-ified" it by simply adding ice.  And then it was drinkable.  Well, almost.  Pete was always Pete and always found a way to enjoy himself.  And Stacy recalled his laugh which we can all still hear.

When Byron and Ashley got married, Pete and Stacy's husband Mike picked up Jan's father Dick (whom we recently lost) at the airport - in a Mustang convertible, with the top down.  Dick jumped in the back seat and got the ride of his life.  With Pete as the instigator and Mike as the lead foot, they drove way too fast and way too furious for Dick's liking.  And Mike and Pete laughed like madmen.   Pete loved to have a good time and loved to give Dick a hard time.

Pete was a guy who really enjoyed life.  I'm sure he had some bad days, we all do.  But he never had one that I actually saw.  He had an infectious charm.  At all of his cookouts, Sox games, family get-togethers, he always had that 'let's have some fun' approach.  And it all started with the smile. He truly never took a bad picture - we believe he really was a Greek God.  Pete did his best to make sure everyone enjoyed themselves.  He was an excellent cook and the brews were always cold.  Laughter and good times.  And good times and laughter.  And when you got up to head home, he always begged you to stay with the question "One more?".

Pete used to tell the story of a Thanksgiving from his childhood.  He and an accomplice spiked his Ya-Ya's (grandma's) coffee.  And Ya-Ya drank it and proceeded to get “Ga-Ga”.  Pete and his accomplice had a good laugh.  Then Pete's dad Poops figured it out, and he asked them, "All right, what did you DO?",  and that's when the Poops hit the fan, so to speak.  Ya-Ya was unharmed.  And you might as well know, the accomplice was Andy.  Andy and Pete learned a valuable life lesson, but I forget if it was ' don't get caught or deny, deny, deny '.  Maybe the real takeaway from this story is that it showed the trend that Pete would follow for the rest of his life: he would always make sure that people had a good time - whether they intended to or not.

It's difficult to accept that our dear friend is gone.   Grief is the price we pay for love, but no one expected this bill would come due so soon.   Nor could we have imagined the breadth and depth of our sorrow as we sit here today.

And yet, Pete's spirit lives on.  Although he is physically gone, he is as close as right here, in our hearts.  The hearts that will never forget him. The hearts that will never stop loving him.  The hearts that will never stop missing him, until we all meet again.

His spirit is as close as the next White Sox game or your next cookout.  It's as near as the love you show your family and friends or the smiles on the faces of his children and grandchildren. That voice, his voice, still speaks in the ear of those dearest to him and they will hear it until their last day.

As hard as it is to lose him, imagine the void in your life had you never known his million dollar smile, his laugh and the kind soul who would help ANYONE in need.  I ask you what you've probably already asked yourself- but for the love of Pete how would your life be different today?

He taught us by example, to be a good son, a good father, a good partner, a good brother, a good friend, even a Good Samaritan.  And he was so good at it that we probably never realized we were being taught until the day he was taken from us. 

It's now up to all of us to "pass it on".  It's up to us to enjoy each and every day that's given to us, to the fullest, no matter how many or how few we might have, just as Pete did.  It's up to us to help a friend.  It's up to us the pass on all the good deeds and the good spirit that Pete shared with us.

And it's up to us to help those closest to him go forward from here.  No brick wall was ever put up all at once.  And neither will your lives be put back together overnight.  From here it's one day at a time, one brick at a time, one course at a time.  The mistake would be to give up because you're overwhelmed by it all.  But by taking one day and one task at a time, each day will get a little easier, I promise you.

Jan, Poops, Andy, Beth, Penny, Nick, Phil, Byron, and Stacy,   I speak for everyone in this room when I say - we are all as close as a phone call or a text message.  Please lean on us.  We will be glad to help.  We WANT to help, for the love of Pete.

A little bit of Pete lives on in each and every one of us.  And we are all better people for it.