AKA Woody

My cousin, Gene, is four years older than me.  He’s the oldest of twelve cousins.   I’m number two and his sister, Ruth Ann, falls third on the list.   His given name is Harry Eugene, but most of his friends call him Woody.   I believe his mom and dad called him Gene (followed by our extended family)  because we already had two Harrys and  a Harrison in the clan.

The origin of Woody is a chicken or the egg conundrum for me.  Gene has a tattoo of Woody Wood Pecker.  I don’t know if people called him Woody because of the tattoo or if he got the tattoo because his friends called him Woody.  I expect the former, because he looks nothing like Woody Wood Pecker.

I have dozens of stories about Gene, but I’ll begin with one most pressing. Gene and Ruth Ann celebrate birthdays a few days apart in late November.  Our family Thanksgiving dinners often included a celebration of these two birthdays.  This is the Thanksgiving 2017 week-end, so I expect you are starting to see the connection.

One summer, I believe the summer of 1955, Gene’s mom, my Aunt Ruth, was very ill.  My Uncle Harry worked long hours.  The care of his mother fell upon eleven year old Gene.  He prepared food, administered medication, cleaned the house, did laundry, helped his mom dress and keep herself clean,  while all the other kids his age were out playing ball, riding their bikes and just being kids.

Ruth Ann spent much of that summer at our house.  She had a kid type summer in a neighboring town.  My mom traveled to help her sister after my dad got home from work.   He worked long hours too.   The trips to help ran late into the evening and were taken every day.  My mom and Gene became a care giving team.  While Mom and Gene had a strong bond prior to that summer, I know it grew stronger because of their care giving duties.  That bond remained strong throughout the remainder of my mother’s life.

I don’t actually remember all of the details of that summer.  My mom talked about it more than once over her lifetime and the story remained the same.   She felt bad for Gene because he was thrust into growing up faster than most.  She also told me he was more like a son to her than a nephew.  I expect that was a result of their shared duties and love of my aunt.

Over the years Gene has continued his care giving ways.   He is always around when anyone needs any help.  Moving, fixing, just lending an extra set of hands, he’s done it all.   When my parents were still alive  he was a dependable “go to” guy.  When my father passed, he became even more important to my mother.  While I was around to help, I lived two hours away.  Gene lived closer and was more immediately available.  Car issues, running toilets, or a flooding basement, Gene stepped up.

Moving forward I’ll have more Gene stories to share, but no matter how many I may post, the most important one is this one because it tells the tale of the birth of my mother’s second son.