Are you Vivian?

I saw or heard or read something today that reminded me of this story. Of course I cannot remember. I even had to text my sister tonight to remind me of Vivian's name. This was long ago; my girls were still in school, and they will be sixty and fifty-eight on next year's birthdays.

It's also about my brother Walt, the old cornmudgeon. 

My neighborhood was unusual for it's time in the forties,  fifties, sixties, right through the late eighties, when mom sold her house and I mine and we all moved into the same house in Boston Township, with its studio for weaving. It was unusual in that there were black families and white. 

Walt lived on the street behind us, and across the street from him and up the street were black families. Walt was married to Hazel, his trophy wife. They were married many years, but then it all fell apart. Hazel eventually returned to England, and Walt kept himself busy finding women he could take care of. He always cast himself as the protector of women and children.

Vivian lived next door to Walt. She had several children. A couple of girls who were adults, a couple of boys, and then Crystal, a lovely little pre-school child. Crystal had wild, curly white blond hair. There were several fathers involved, but I was gone from the neighborhood by then and not involved. 

Walt was in full protector mode about Vivian and the children, and eventually he married her and blended the families. The marriage lasted a few years, but it too ended and everyone moved on.

Jan and I were living in Boston, weaving, when we learned the neighbor across the street from Walt's house, Bob, had passed away. He and his family had moved there after I moved away from home. He was close with my family and Walt's. When the screened room in the back yard was destroyed, Bob's son helped our brother Melvin rebuild it.

Jan had been a good friend of Bob's, too, and asked me if I would go to his funeral with her. I hadn't known Bob well, but I did have several family years with Crystal, and the neighborhood was aware that her father was Bob. And the service was at a black church we were not familiar with, so at least we would know each other and Bob's children and grandchildren.

The service was at a large church in Akron. It's pastor was a member of Akron's council. It was full of people celebrating Bob; we found seats way at the back. The service was lovely, and pleasant to observe. As my Catholic nun aunt told me after a funeral service for a cousin, years and years before, "It's just like our service!"

Yes, people are much the same. When the service ended, we found ourselves escorted as guests to a receiving line, and Bob's family thanked us for being there. Then we passed through a line of women who could have been the ones running the little community church I grew up in.

We passed down the line, shaking hands, saying our good-byes and thanking the women. Toward the end, almost at the door, one woman kept my hand and pulled me toward her. "Are you Vivian?"

"No, we're old friend's of Bob". 

"Well, we just wanted to know and I see no one has asked you yet."

Jan and I smiled all the way home. Another old curmudgeon, just like our brother.