My Cousin Johnny

 

 I have only done this once before: written what I guess is a eulogy. That was for Mommy. (I still miss her!) This time around, I am compelled to memorialize my cousin Johnny who played a bigger part in my childhood than anyone will ever know.

Johnny was two years older than me which- when we were kids- afforded him a sense of wisdom and gravitas. He got me to do and believe all sorts of pretty crazy stuff because of this age advantage. Like the time he paid me a dollar (in pennies) if I would eat an entire raw onion. (I did it.) 

We lived in New Haven while our parents built their house on property contiguous to my grandmother (Gramma) and my aunts and uncles. Every weekend, we would drive to Durham so that Mommy and Daddy could work on the house. I would immediately run across the field to see Johnny. We spent most of our time roving the woods, building forts and bridges and somehow not injuring ourselves too badly. Our toys consisted mainly of tools: saws and hatchets and other sharp implements stolen from our parents tool boxes: real child-safe approved stuff.(*1) Also frequently starring in our escapades was Johnny's bee bee gun. (Oh boy did I want one!) We shot at all sorts of things, most often missing but sometimes hitting one another. I still recall the day I limped home with several round holes in my knee, trusting that Mommy wouldn't ask too closely what had happened.

Johnny and I founded The Kongatowa Club. (*2)It was named for a large stream flowing through the property that abutted our family's woods; I don't know that it had an "official" name but we christened it The Kongatowa River. It afforded passage to vast tracts of swamp and forest, which in turn led to a dirt road that approached The Pig Man's Farm. We often dared each other to climb the rise that hid the (literal) Pig Farm from view. The smell was frequently overwhelming but it was thrilling to catch a glimpse of the hidden farm or even get chased away by the farmer. We in The Kongatowa Club lived dangerously.

After these exhilarating and exhausting excursions (*3), we'd repair to Gramma's house- nicknamed The Tea House- for a cup of milky tea, graciously provided by Gramma. The mismatched teacups themselves provided entertainment: who would get the cup adorned by a pheasant (referred to as the "Fozzent" cup), or The Daniel Boone mug? There were also Gramma's mysterious Cabinet of Rocks to admire and a strange wooden dachshund painted green... all sorts of oddities. Johnny, Cathy and I spent hours visiting Gramma, who enjoyed our company until we resorted to one of our favorite pass times. This consisted of spitting (often some of that milky tea) into the large furnace grate that covered part of her living room floor. A satisfying sizzling noise arose from the unseen depths of the basement and satisfying words of surprise and anger erupted from Gramma. (*4) 

These are the things I remember about Johnny and our childhood escapades. I didn't see Johnny, or his wonderful wife Chris, much in adulthood, but I know he was happy making music and traveling to Block Island and Jamestown and working on his house, which I recall having been transformed into a playful space with nooks and crannies and cats. The last time I saw Johnny was at Mommy's funeral and gathering. He seemed well and it was nice to catch up. The last time I talked to Johnny was last year. In COVID time, he had been admitted to the hospital with a recurrence of cancer. (*5) When he returned home, I called him, hoping he'd sound okay. He was weak and tired and realistic about what was happening.

Johnny died this last week. I think his death caused me to reflect on the fragility of our lives and on how much time has passed since our childhoods. I hope that Johnny has crossed The Kongatowa River and is enjoying a milky cup of tea with Gramma at The Tea House.

(*1) I am not sure whether our parents ever knew exactly where all these tools had vanished to. Mommy and Daddy probably blamed each other for having carelessly misplaced them. It is possible they thought we were angels who would never do dangerous stuff like steal and lie.. hahahahaaha!!

(*2) My younger sister Cathy was a sometimes/partial member of this organization. She was occasionally allowed to accompany us on our adventures into the outback, but I am sorry to confess that one of the reasons for The Kongatowa Club was to keep it exclusive. Johnny and I therefore spent time and effort thinking up impossible tasks for Cathy to perform in order to achieve full membership. (Nice, huh?) More than once, we left Cathy to chop through a fallen tree with an extremely dull saw. We'd go off on exciting excursions and return an hour later to find my poor sister diligently hewing away. Kids are so cruel! I cringe now to consider this but at the time it felt great!

(*3) How's that for alliteration?!? 

(*4) Let's face it: half the fun of being a kid is irritating adults and pushing limits!

(*5) Do I need to say it? Fuck cancer.