The problem with life is that we’re often too busy living in the moment to look into the rearview mirror and contemplate it.
We’re always told to live in the “now.” Don’t look back. Even Christine McVie, when singing some philosophical advice to her soon-to-be ex-husband John in “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” closed Fleetwood Mac’s signature song with the words “yesterday’s gone” and “don’t you look back.”
The trouble with looking back, the philosophy goes, is that it doesn’t take long for the regrets to come to the surface and play games with your head. Better to bury the past and keep going forward.
But … sometimes that is impossible. And sometimes, those trips down memory lane yield some nice recollections.
Today, I’m going back. So please bear with me.
Last week, the last surviving sibling of my mother died at the age of 94. My Aunt Ruth was No. 6 out of seven, and came a couple of years after my mother.
The oldest of the sons and daughters of J. Robert and Eva Cornell, Mary, was born in 1916. If you do the math, that comes out to a span of 103 years from the time Mary came into this world to the time Ruth left it. Her death was truly the end of an era.
I know that as large families go, that’s not all that uncommon. But even so, if you slow down and put it into perspective, that’s one entire century. It’s still pretty remarkable.
Think of all that happened during that span. When Mary was born, the U.S. hadn’t even entered World War I. By the time Eileen came along, we were fighting in Europe.
Robert and Vincent fought in World War II — Vin in Europe (including Normandy) and Rob in the Philippines. Thankfully, both came home and lived long, happy and productive lives.
Then came Evelyn, my mother, in 1923. She was old enough to remember my grandparents losing their house on Talmuth Avenue in Haverhill during the depression. The Cornells relocated to Swampscott, and ended up living on 76 Banks Road (I used to sing those words all the time to the tune of “76 Trombones” from the Music Man).
Evelyn, who died five years ago, was the sixth sibling to pass away. I used to joke that she was the family matriarch. She loved that, and played the part for all it was worth for as long as she could.
Ruth outshone my mother in every sport they played at Swampscott High — at least according to my mother. Like Mary, she became a nurse.
Ruth also hosted the annual family reunion/cookout every summer, when we’d all go down to her house in Connecticut and end up searching for my cousin’s son, who always managed to wander off and worry everyone half to death.
Last — and oddly enough, the only one of the seven who died before the age of 80 — was Helen, my Godmother. She was 79.
I wish I’d been more aware of things growing up. I was not even a teenager when the 1960s entered with an unwelcome thud with President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. But even in my youthful obliviousness, I could see my parents, aunts and uncles struggle with the changing times.
They all saw heartache and tragedy in one way or another over the years, and some of it was awful. But boy, they stuck together through all of it. If one of them ran into a difficult situation, the other six and their spouses were right there lending support. Their devotion to each other was inspirational — and a wonderful example to their children.
The biggest gift they gave to my sister, my cousins and me, was laughter. Family gatherings were full of it, and it was infectious. Aunt Eileen had the loudest, and I swear you could hear her from miles away. And once they all got going, forget it. It was a human laugh track.
But as George Harrison wrote, all things must pass.
The seven siblings shared a little beach cottage on Emerald Avenue in Hampton Beach, N.H., that my grandparents owned. It was the central meeting place in the summer for the Cornell clan.
Though each family got a week, we’d all visit each other throughout the summer. There were lots of cookouts, with lots and lots of corn on the cob, and — of course — plenty of laughter.
Last year around this time, the cottage, which was filled with little historical trinkets from the days of our parents and grandparents, was torn down by its new owners. In its place has risen a majestic structure — I call it the Emerald Mansion — that looks more like a giant B&B than the quaint cottage that had stood there for a century.
It must have been a sign.
The seven Cornell offspring, and their spouses, grew into 29 sons and daughters. Of those, 24 remain. Maintaining the closeness of our youth is difficult, as we’re all over the place. But the lines of communication definitely remain open.
Only my Aunt Shirley, who was Ruth’s friend from nursing school, and who married my Uncle Vin, remains of this wonderful, awe-inspiring group that gave us so much growing up. I feel so fortunate to have been a part of it then, and to be a part of it now.
