DON’T THROW THAT STUFF OUT

Last night, I found myself trying to organize all those things that one keeps labeled under the heading of ‘family stuff’. There’s something intriguing about poring over old photographs. Whether the photos are black and whites from the Old Country or yellow-stained images from the days of our own youth, looking at them is like peeking through a window at another world. There was other things as well. Since my uncle’s passing in 1976, I kept his ‘stuff’. Now, this includes not only photographs, but mementos from his life. His 8th grade class autograph book, where salutations from fellow classmates read along the lines of ‘2 good 2 be 4 gotten’ and other similar notations that harken back to how kids spoke to each other in the 1920’s. Then I revisited every report card that he received while attending Xavier High School in the 1930’s and painstakingly saved. Now, since I attended the same high school as my uncle, there was a deep bond between him and me. There were letters that several Jesuits sent to my uncle as a young man that he kept. In particular, there were letters from one Jesuit named Gerry Cuddy. While my uncle was alive, he spoke of this Jesuit as being one of the best teachers he had. The report cards bear this out. He received ‘second honors’ during the year that Mr. Cuddy, then a Jesuit Scholastic, was his home room teacher. The report cards then take an ominous turn when, in the following year, he found himself in academic trouble. ‘You son is in danger of failing the following subjects; Latin Composition, Latin Lit, Mathematics. He will need to take remedial examinations in the above checked subjects in order to continue at Xavier’, another saved letter stated. The Jesuits charged 5.00 for each examination and my uncle kept the receipt for these tests, as well. Like a detective, I tried to understand what happened. As I reviewed each card, I saw him standing in from of his parents asking them to sign these report cards and they did. My grandparent’s signatures are on each card under the red circled grades. The shame must have been overwhelming. John was asked to leave Xavier going into his senior year; yet he kept those cards and letters from Gerry Cuddy. Last night, I decided to find out more about who this Jesuit was and, because of the internet, I found myself corresponding with a present day Jesuit, Francis X. Hezel, who worked with Father Cuddy in Micronesia. Father Hezel, thanked me for reaching out and promised to share some insight into who Gerry Cuddy was with me. He sent me the attached photos of Father Cuddy. What kind of man was he that made my uncle save every small piece of correspondence sent from him? When I think of the Jesuits I had, I can recite a number of them who had profound impact on my life. Duminuco, Aracich, Keenan, Biaggi, Hoefner, Wood are Jesuits who helped me in my own life. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, lemme tell you. Those are big years. Everybody always thinks of it as a time of adolescence—just getting through to the real part of your life—but it’s more than that. Sometimes your whole life happens in those years, and the rest of your life is just the same story playing out with different characters. I’m eternally grateful for going through those years with these Jesuits and I’m grateful that my uncle had, even for a brief time, Gerry Cuddy. A teacher, wrote Henry Adams, attains a kind of immortality because one never knows where a teacher’s influence ends. I hope that Father Hezel shares with me some stories of who Gerry Cuddy was. His influence on my uncle’s life was unquestionable and I thank him for that.

So, as I closed the box on the items I have kept, I will miss my uncle no more or no less than I did yesterday. In a strange way, I found myself missing Gerry Cuddy although I never knew him. There’s no magic wand that has filled the void of my uncle’s absence. Nor would I want there to be. There is no expiration date on grief. Grief, after all, is just a measure of the vastness of love. Grief never really ends because love never ends. I’ll never get rid of those report cards or Gerry Cuddy’s letters.