My Generation

In between the 12:00 - 2:00 and 6:00 - 8:00 PM viewings on Wednesday, Peter and I drove back into the city to take Mary to the pool for the first time. She's been growing immensely recently and I needed to see her in the suit that finally fit. (Turns out Mary wasn't a fan of the chilly baby pool, but she did like posing poolside, much like her Mom used to do.)

Growing up, I never would have dreamed of going back and forth from Pittsburgh to Peter's Township like that. A trip from our house on Bartlett Street to my grandparents' in McMurray seemed like an eternity as a child. In fact, we were in my Mom's Olds 98 long enough that there was bound to be a crossing of lines in the back seat, an altercation, and the transition from tamed hair to messy, which in turn merited a stern scolding and the need for my Mom's little pink brush.

I never knew its origins, but I can't remember a time when that brush didn't exist. Measuring no more than five inches, carrying a small tuft of black bristles, strong enough to care for a hairsprayed updo and gentle enough to part a baby's soft locks, and enforcing its visibility with hot pink coloring, it was the staple of my mom's purse. Whatever bag she carried, the little pink brush was bound to be there.

As we would turn off Washington Road, the sign that we were almost at Grandma and Grandpa's house, my Mom would open up her purse, take out pink and tell each of us to brush our hair. A couple strokes later, we were polished and ready for the Barry party du jour, prepared to quickly get our hair messed up again. 

A couple months ago, my Mom lost her 40+ year-old brush. I could tell how sad she was when she told me, and I couldn't help but feel the same way. In its lifetime it saw a myriad of my mom's handbags, the inside of court rooms, the bathrooms of the finest restaurants, planes, trains, bikes, boats and automobiles, it detangled countless knots, it helped raise my brother, sister and I, and it was a tireless companion to my mother.

The loss of this iconic tool - a symbol of the relationship my mom shared with her children - seemed to foreshadow a transition in my life - that from child to adult. And the past couple days, with the loss of my last surviving grandparent, her funeral and burial, and the celebration of her beautiful life, I feel like that transition was sealed. I am no longer the child. Instead, now I'm the brush bearer, or in my case, the comb carrier. And it feels weird. A little sad, a little scary, but exciting at the same time.

This generational transition didn't seem to be isolated to me. There seemed to be a comprehensive shift in my family as my grandma passed from this life to the next. Suddenly, my generation had more weight to carry, more music to make, air time to fill, and jokes to crack.

 

The older generation had more cookies to bake, hugs to dish out, photos to pass around, stories to remember, and wisdom to share.

And the newest generation had fresh faces to drip on, clean hands to soil, and straight parts to mess up.

Regardless, whatever our new roles, just as Grandma and Grandpa did, we will remain a family that stays together - laughing, loving, and living for each other.

And in both heaven and here on Earth, there will always be dancing.

 Lo.