June 10: Older Mr. Ives, a Funeral, Michael Mlekoday, "Genealogy"

...On one of those visitors' days, around Christmas, he found himself standing before a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman, whose own eyes were sad--the older Mr. Ives--who placed his warm hand on the boy's face and kneeling before the lad, took a long, long look, making his decision.

That passage describes how Ives is adopted by his father.  Ives never knew his birth parents.  He was left on the steps of a foundling home as an infant.  No note.  No way to track his genealogy.  The only clue to his origins are his olive complexion and dark hair.  Ives spends his life imagining his parents were Cuban or Italian or Spanish, but he never knows for sure.  Yet, he has a father--a good, kind man who provides him a home, encourages his artistic talents, and loves him unconditionally.

I want to talk about another good, kind man tonight. 

This afternoon, I attended the funeral of my wife's great uncle, Melvin.  Sitting in church, listening to the pastor talk about the life of this man, I was incredibly moved and humbled.  Melvin was married to the same woman for 72 years.  He served in Europe during World War II and witnessed firsthand the atrocities of the Holocaust (a fact I didn't know until today).  His whole life, he supported the causes of veterans--marching in parades, selling poppies, attending Memorial Day services.  And he did all this with tremendous heart and humor.

It's a sad occasion when anyone dies.  Today, my wife feels like she's lost a grandfather.  I feel like the world has lost a great soul, in every sense of the word.  A person of great courage and honor and love.  I think the measure of a person's life is whether the world is a better place because of that life.

The world is a much better place because of Melvin.

Saint Marty salutes a true hero this evening.

Genealogy

by:  Michael Mlekoday

One of my grandparents rented a gramophone,
another owned three songbirds and a shot glass.

One slept in the day, the other remembered
the timbre of wild horses, tallgrass prairies.

All of my belongings are loosely related
to paper; some by ancestry,

others by weight or malleability,
by color or function or analogy.

One of my grandparents
was always connected to machines.

Another witnessed Mussolini
strung up like a bird feeder.

All of my girlfriends have tattoos
in languages they cannot speak.

One of my grandparents was a darkened basement;
another was a clothesline waiting for summer,

already exploding in white and wind,
shaking like a fist at the imperfect sky.

I have a kind of recurring nightmare,
only it comes in daytime when I am awake,

but like a dream I cannot control it
and it teaches me something about falling.

In the vision, my home catches fire
like paper does, quick and forever.

I stumble from room to room,
searching for something worth saving,

but cannot choose.  One of my grandparents
was a wood stove.  Another was an axe.

A true American hero