In February 2014, legendary New York sportswriter Marty Noble wrote about the passing of legendary New York Mets announcer and Baseball Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner:
"The radio and television programming was characterized by those speaking as 'a celebration,' and it was. I understand the concept; celebrate rather than mourn. But how difficult it was to see his passing as anything other than miserably sad...He had a good, long life. But I wanted it to be longer by 30 years, or at least by two months, so I could see him one more time and absorb one more anecdote..."
And in February 2019, we can say the same for Flora DeBonis Pikul: sister, mother, godmother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, great-aunt, great-great-aunt, cousin, friend and so on.
Now Marty Noble was talking about a sports figure, a celebrity. And you could argue that Grandma was a celebrity. She had a star quality. She had her 15 minutes of fame: a grand-prize winner on the "Concentration" game show in the early 1960s. And when I was little and looked at any of the black and white pictures of her from the 1940s, I was convinced she was one of the Andrews Sisters.
I wanted to see her more in my younger years. She seemed to always be working. But I felt her presence as I watched the Endora character -- "Grandmama" -- on many a "Bewitched" rerun, and that would help pass the time until I'd see her again. On a Sunday gathering or a holiday gathering. Oh, those Sunday gatherings. And oh, those holiday gatherings. There was no place I'd rather be. Then or now.
I don't think I'm alone in that I wanted her life to be longer by another 30 years, or just a few months. I think we all wanted to absorb one more anecdote about anything, just to hear her say it how she saw it. A life lesson in a bite-size chunk.
I think we all want to hear again, when we have an injury or a problem:
"You'll live."
I think we all want to hear again, that one saying that can get us out of any sticky situation:
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I think we all want to hear again, as I did when I called from Seattle during my first divorce, consumed by regret and embarrassment:
"Well, that's why pencils have erasers on them."
I think we all want to hear again, when we ask ourselves whether we are doing enough for those around us who are suffering, and be given a lesson in coping skills and profound courage:
"You just give until there's no more to give."
Perhaps, given the size of our family and the sheer number of those closest to her, she only had time for a bite-sized chunk. For some of us, it was plenty.
But through all this, we gained an appreciation for how she didn't direct each of us on how to proceed in our life or hold our hands through our trials. Instead, she gave us the motivation to brush ourselves off, push forward with our heads held high and figure out our next steps.
I wish that my last conversation with her would have yielded yet another bite-sized chunk. But come to think of it, "I love you" summed it all up.
From age 18 to 93, she had a full plate to say the least. She sacrificed any selfish dream or aspiration -- star of stage and film, Frank Sinatra groupie, or whatever she wanted -- in favor of family. 121-12 84th Ave. was home, regardless of where our lives took us. And her stewardship kept us grounded.
She pushed forward, despite many soul-shaking family tragedies. 1984 comes to mind for many of us. In turn, she motivated us to do the same.
She accepted any role in life with strength and courage, and she had a seemingly limitless reserve. She may have held a grudge, but she would never turn her back on us.
Did she owe us more? No. She gave us what we needed to go about our own lives. She gave plenty, and she gave willingly and unconditionally. And if she were to have ever asked anything of us, it would be for acknowledgement that she gave her all to provide for those she loved. But as with other strong-willed members of the Greatest Generation, she never asked.
She was super-human in many ways. In other ways, not so much. Like driving. Ooh. So many mishaps. So many white-knuckle rides. But that was her way to show that she couldn't do it all. But if I had to choose between keeping the fabric of the family together for decades and skilled driving, I'd take the former in a heartbeat.
In April 2014, there was a major shift. And finally, she needed us. It was our time to see if we can deliver even a fraction of what she has done/provided all these years. It was our time to "give until there is no more to give."
She deserved a far better ending. But as with any other of her life's challenges, she faced it head-on despite the physical toll. And for almost five years, we lived in fear that the next call would be THE call. And then it came.
It doesn't seem fair that our final living memory of her was that of a weakened, bedridden, dependent elderly person; but that'll fade. Because what abides and endures will be contained in our photographs and memories of the younger, elegant, vibrant, strong, independent version of her.
And once we leave here, we can remember her exactly the way she used to be. She will want us to know that it's all good outside that door and we must move forward. And we will, with our unending love and admiration for her.
For any of us who finds ourselves in an arrested state of being, or consumed by her passing, rest assured she has finally let each of us go to continue our personal journey with the toolkit she provided us. Her passing should bring us light. An unexpected joy, in a way. And we shouldn't feel guilty about that, because when we don't have any unresolved issues with someone we really love, they're never really gone.
So Flora. Flo. Aunt Flora. Grandma. Great Grandma. "You'll live"...forever in our hearts.
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