It’s never good when the telephone rings at 4 a.m.
My mother reminded me of that fact when she called me later on Monday morning to tell me that she and Dad had received a dreaded 4 a.m. telephone call informing them that my uncle had passed away.
My dad’s older brother, Stanley — affectionately known as “Stush” — would have turned 84 next month. The news truly was startling to me. Yes, he was getting up in age and, frankly, he was not well. Still, none of us believed his death was imminent.
And then came that phone call.
Three days later, my husband and I were on the road, heading back to my hometown of Johnstown, Pa., for the funeral.
My dad and Uncle Stush were two out of 12 children — a conveniently balanced six girls and six boys. The family grew up in a small coal-mining town known only as “Mine 42” in southwestern Pennsylvania, not far from the bigger coal-mining town of Windber, Pa.
The close-knit family somehow managed to fit their lives into a compact two-story row house, provided by the coal company that employed my grandfather. Dad has told me stories about all the boys wrestling over things like the last piece of fried chicken or who would get what position in the bed that multiple boys shared.
I never met my paternal grandparents. They both died when Dad was very young. Dad’s mother died when he was only 9, leaving him and the rest of his young siblings to be raised by his father and older sisters, until his father passed away when Dad was only 16. Dad was the youngest boy, and after him had come his younger three siblings, all girls.
That’s probably part of the reason that he grew so close to Stush, his closest brother in age. Later in life, they remained also geographically closest of all the siblings.
As adults, the two moved out of the tiny mining town, relocating just about a mile up the country lane to the top of the ridge outside of town. They each built ranch houses on parcels of land surrounded by forest and abutting one another. That ranch house was my first home, and my parents still live there today.
Without fail, each time Dad and Uncle Stush shared a common day off throughout their entire lives, they would be found shooting the breeze on the living room couch in winter or sharing a beer on the porch in the summer.
And as the seasons ebbed and flowed, Dad and Uncle Stush spent time hunting or fishing together, and then, of course, ribbing one another about who got the bigger buck or the most rainbow trout.
They traveled together on fishing trips to Canada and Lake Erie. In summer, they traded the vegetables each raised in dueling gardens. They went to Steelers and Pirates games, and at different stages in their lives, they each had snowmobiles and all-terrain vehicles to ride together through the woods.
It was a sad visit back home this week with lots of tears and lots of hugs. But it was a reunion of sorts for us to visit with Dad’s remaining siblings and their families.
As you can imagine, the family is still quite large. I once counted that I have been blessed with 33 first cousins, all on Dad’s side of the family. Now, most of us have children of our own, and I’ve lost count of all the second and third cousins.
After the funeral at a tiny church, just down the road from my alma mater Forest Hills High School, we enjoyed a lovely home-cooked luncheon where we were reunited and able to rib one another about things like the NFL — especially considering that my husband, the die-hard Browns fan, was surrounded in hardcore Steelers country.
Now that my uncle has been laid to rest, I know my Dad will sorely miss their routine visits and good-natured debates.
But one thing is for certain. We all should be so blessed to have shared the kind of love and bond that these brothers had for some 80 years.
Rest in peace, Uncle Stush.
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