It was 25 years last November that my mother passed away. I remember the evening, on November 19th, very clearly. She was only 73 but had been ill and in pain for a while, and I know it was a relief to her to finally be free of that. It was a relief to us too, for about 15 minutes. Then everything in life got darker and had a kind of muffled quality to it, like a hand over your mouth in a kidnapping.
Her best friend, and one of the few women who stayed loyal to her through her illness, was Edith Unsworth Franco, called Dee. College friends, they shared a timeless elegance, a love of theatre, a wicked sense of humor, great beauty, and an adventurous spirit. For more than fifty years, they laughed and cried, celebrated births and successes, and suffered deaths, failures, and worries together. They and their husbands became close with each other’s siblings, they knew each other’s parents, and then each other’s children and the children of their siblings, and now I and my sisters cherish the relationship with Dee and Tony’s children and grandchildren.
Aunt Dee passed away last April at 96 years old, having lost Tony, her beloved husband of 66 years, just six months before. Tony was 97 when he died. They had an incredible life together, two amazing children and eight grandchildren. (That is a lot of production for two kids, and only one set of twins in there). Tony Franco was a world-class tennis player his whole life, inducted into the Eastern Tennis Hall of Fame, and #1 in the world for 80-year olds, then 90-year olds. He used to joke that it got easier to maintain the title as you got older, as the field tended to shrink.
The obituaries for Aunt Dee and Uncle Tony are rich with detail about their lives, accomplishments, families and personalities, while my mother’s obit is excruciatingly perfunctory. I’m not sure why, as she spoke three languages, was an Equity-member actress, opera singer and classical pianist, golfer and tennis player, charity ball chair, and our house was the place that all the kids wanted to come because she was there. Maybe we were just too heartbroken to write much, I don’t know, but it doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe that’s why I keep writing about her.
My father’s obit from 2010 is not much better, but at least it’s findable on the internet. He too, had a rich and accomplished life as a CEO of a local bank, husband to his childhood sweetheart, father to three amazing daughters, softball coach, a pilot, sailor and single-digit-handicap golfer, Eagle Scout and life-long supporter and fundraiser for the Boy Scouts of America for which he was honored generously, a musician, craftsman and all-around great guy.
One of the most “I don’t want to do this” tasks left to children is to clear out the family home. It’s an awful thing to have to do, but also wonderful to discover photos and letters that show you who your parents were before they were your parents. Sure, you might have to sort through thick, loose black and white photos of solemn ancestors on their wedding days looking like someone has farted or there’s some Stilton cheese nearby, but the photos from your early childhood and your parents early days are priceless.
We found photos of weekends at Fairfield Beach with Aunt Dee’s brother Colin and his wife Sydney (one of the liveliest people I remember as a child with a laugh that mirrored my mother’s operatic chortle, and when they laughed together it was notable) and their six children, along with Dee and Tony’s children Lola and BT (stood for Baby Tony and that still haunts the poor guy when we talk to him. Sorry BT we can’t help it). Volleyball on the beach for the kids while the adults howled and toasted each other and once in a while braved the chilly Sound with us if we cried out from the miniature waves enough (well, it’s not the ocean).
More beach with the Franco kids at our club on Long Island and stories of Aunt Dee and Tony babysitting for Judy and Art’s new baby (that would be me) and my parents coming home two hours later to find the at-that-time-childless couple in exactly the same place as they left them: hovering over my bassinet making sure I was still breathing.
Last week, Lola found dozens of communications and memorabilia (including a college Playbill in which both our moms starred in a play together) discovered a hilarious paragraph written in Feb 1958 in a letter from Dee to her mother in which she defends my mother’s contraction of hepatitis when I was three months old!
I treasure the connection that is our ‘bigger’ family, strengthened by the efforts of Lola and BT to preserve the legacy of their family’s history and share our part in it. At Aunt Dee’s funeral, the Francos, Hugs and Unsworths vowed not to wait for funerals and weddings to stay connected (although we would welcome the latter as there have been too many of the former recently). While we may only have one life here on earth, these two friends showed us that family is really about love-and some Thanksgiving charades.
i was finally able to read, so i wouldn't humiliate myself crying at work. i have cried enough these past few months. this is lovely. and we love the hug girls so much. it's still so hard to believe they're not here, but at least they are all together again. xx
This is so beautiful.