The Face of Kindness

12/25/05

COMMENTARY, Randy Weiss

Our last living link to our ancestral past, she saw her legacy in us and our kids.

She lived alone in a small house down by the docks. She didn't travel far, mostly to church and for food. She paid her bills on time. She saved things, too -- newspapers, catalogues and stuff like that. Basically everything.

Growing up on the East Coast, Geraldine Weiss had hopes and dreams and aspirations. Though once engaged, she never married nor had children. So she showered her affections on her brother's family -- a niece and my sister, Jeri, and two nephews -- my brother Jimmy and me.

And to us all, Auntie Gerry was someone very special, indeed.

Her home was an intriguing topic. Good housekeeping was not one of her better attributes -- the reason given for why we never entered. But her arrival at our home was like celebrating Christmas every time. She was very generous with presents and love.

And as the years rolled along, we three gradually moved away to new lives far away. She retired to a private life in her small home down by the docks, where she lived alone. Health challenges were later fought with gusto. Daily crossword puzzles kept her mind mentally sharp. Sage advice, loving support, religious calibration and a trip down memory lane were available upon request.

Her heart beat to her deep love of family, now nine great-nieces and great-nephews stronger. She savored our accomplishments, our challenges and our basic, everyday, ordinary lives during many calls made from sleek digital cell phones. Our last living link to our ancestral past, she saw her legacy in us and our kids. Her lifeline was an ancient rotary phone, outliving its original warranty by many decades.

Through it all, Auntie Gerry was an interesting study, a determined, self-sufficient woman who wouldn't readily accept charity and support. When her refrigerator broke a few years ago, she'd buy food to last a day or two and kept it in an ice chest.

"Let us get you a new refrigerator, Auntie," we offered.

"No, thank you. I don't need one," she responded.

"Sure, you do. Everyone needs one," we said.

"No, I'm fine. Really. Thanks anyway," she'd say.

Other times we spoke of relocation possibilities.

"Let us help you move near one of us," we said.

"No, thanks. My life is here, as are my doctors," she replied.

Her Social Security checks didn't offer many luxuries. Practically none. A $20 bill or catalog gift on birthdays and Christmas came with love and quiet sacrifice.

Auntie Gerry endured hardship as minor inconvenience more than complaint. When her electricity went out during a blizzard, Adult Protective Services tried assisting her.

"Let us help you fix your electricity. We can clean up your house and repair that dangerous front step for you. There are programs to save money on your utilities, too," the nice representative offered.

"No, thanks. Please leave me alone," said Auntie.

"C'mon, Auntie, this is a good opportunity. Let them help you," we echoed.

"I don't want any help. Don't you understand?" she said tersely.

She did appreciate random acts of kindness demonstrated by those living nearby whom she knew and trusted -- like Joe, home on leave from the Merchant Marine. He would benevolently shovel snow from her driveway without permission or compensation. Neighbor Frank also helped, and with the yard in the summer. John and Linda, owners of a local deli, would gently remind Auntie Gerry that some foods were off-limits. They would steer her to healthier alternatives.

"Gerry, that's not the best for you with your diabetes," John warned.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I think you're right. But I love those," Auntie replied.

"Are you doing OK? Why don't you call in your order and we'll be happy to deliver it to your house," Linda would offer.

"No, no. I'm fine, thank you. I'll take two of those," Auntie Gerry responded.

And then there was Charlie the mailman. Working for the Postal Service, he kept a watchful eye over her and made sure, of course, that she got her mail.

"How are you doing today, Gerry?" he'd ask when she greeted him at her front door with the broken step.

"I'm fine, thank you, Charlie. I hope things are well for you," she said.

"Yes, everything is good. Thanks for asking. Have a nice day," Charlie responded.

These everyday contacts and connections were important to Auntie Gerry -- there alone in her little house down by the docks. Then last week, it was Charlie who first noticed something amiss. Auntie hadn't taken in her mail for a couple of days and her car was in the driveway.

"Have you seen Miss Weiss?" Charlie asked some neighbors.

Frank hadn't seen her, nor had his wife, Lisa.

"It's not like her," Charlie added. "I hope she's OK."

He asked around. No luck. He called his brother-in-law at the Police Department. They came quickly.

Amongst the 2-foot-deep avalanche of papers and old magazines, Geraldine Weiss, age 81, was found barely alive in her small house down by the docks, her home for over 50 years. She was rushed to a hospital and died later that evening.

To the very end, she lived life on her terms. And for us, her surviving family, now knowing there were special people watching out for her well-being is very comforting -- people like John and Linda, Frank and Lisa and Joe and Charlie. Theirs are the real faces of kindness.

Over the years and across all the many miles, we now know that Auntie Gerry wasn't really alone after all. Her memory burns bright -- and no brighter than at Christmas.

The author lives in Santa Barbara.