Once there were five brothers standing tall.  A photo of them hung on my parents’ wall.

Dad had four brothers and (more than) four sisters-in-law.  They were our greatest generation.  Not because they were all wonderful people (not all were in fact good people).  But because they had the resilience, grit and determination to make it in 1940s and 1950s America and survive and thrive in the upheavals of the 1960s though the 1980s.

You need to listen to Cousin Gentle’s ballad of  The Family.  Our greatest generation fought in the war that America won, left the cramped apartment of their immigrant parents, and lived the American dream.  They cemented our family’s place in America.

Dad and AG (Aunt Glue) are who remain of the greatest generation. AG hosted every Rosh Ha-Shana of my childhood at their big house in the suburbs.  She introduced my parents.  She soothed her husband’s scars of life as an American POW in a WWII Nazi concentration camp.  She raised three sons, and buried one of them.  AG forced the blue grass band to play Hava Nagilah at BOB’s not-so-Jewish wedding in Texas.  While the band knew the music, they couldn’t pronounce the words, so they sang “Have a Tequila” instead.  She danced and qvelled at my sister’s wedding, and soothed the sadness of our own mother’s not being alive to see it.

AG is the venerated matriarch — the last surviving mother — of our generation.  Our generation’s ages range from 48 to near 70 years old; still, as old as we get, we never outgrow the need for a mother figure.  Her presence at our life cycle events is the seal of approval of the generation whose voices are mostly in our heads and hearts.

She will not make it to my wedding.  The trajectory of her recently diagnosed disease makes that clear.  It is so shocking because just 8 months ago she was able to travel by plane and negotiate some arduous travel.

On Saturday, Dad, Cousin Gentle, SOB, POB, SOS, BOB and I drove 3 hours each way to see her, near her new home.  BOB flew half-way across the country to make this trip.  Because we know too well the finality of death and the torment of missing what might be that last visit.

On the drive up everyone was subdued.  Dad didn’t even break out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” or “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” two of his favorite car ride tunes.  SOB and I didn’t even have the emotional energy to make our usual million dollar bets on these things.  (As a result, I am still $2 million in debt since January 1.)

And Dad was having his own crazy senior moments — from confusing family with friends to eating with serving forks — so it really added to the gestalt of the day.  He has known AG for 70 years and I think he was reacting to the situation but unable to express it.

Sidebar:  I, of course, was hungry (because sad things make me hungry) and, after a three hour car ride and visiting for an hour, I finally said to my cousin, “Look, I know we were rude not to bring house gift, but we are really starving and I would like to help you put out lunch.”  She said she was so glad that I was honest because she would have kept talking.  And then she did.  So, I asked, “Cousin, is it ok if I open your refrigerator and start taking out food??”  Because in our family, the strong eat the weak or, in this case, corned beef and knishes.

Sidebar on the Sidebar:  Corned beef, on rye with coleslaw and sliced pickles and a little mustard, is, as Mom would say “a little bit of Heaven”, with her eyes half-closed as if imagining Elysian Fields.

AG is very diminished physically (less so mentally); even when she forgets, her personality is still in tact.  She is at peace and grateful for the time she has left.

Yesterday, we were witness to the spirit of the greatest generation, facing down the darkest hours and the biggest tests, with a quiet determination and “we will handle what comes when it comes” attitude.

So much more is the profound loss when our greatest generation is no more.