A Patriarch's Passing

Tomorrow, we will send off the long-time head of our family. William John Maley–Papa to some, Uncle Bill to others–was a lot of things; a loving husband, a hard worker and an active member of his Palmyra, PA community. But to me, he was always the Patriarch–the strong and gregarious leader of a big Irish-Catholic family who could hold things together from the top, even when they insisted on falling apart down the line. Though it is a blessing to see him finally at peace after much suffering, his absence has left a hole every bit as big as the mark he made on our collective lives.

It's hard to describe the kind of towering figure my great uncle had been throughout my childhood. Billy was the younger brother of my dad's father, Joseph Ignatius Maley, who was known to his family as Buddy. Bill didn't cut quite the figure of Bud, a barrel-chested Marine who stood over six-feet tall, tipped the scales north of 240 and was with the 3rd Marine Division when they raised the flag on Iwo Jima. But Uncle Bill had that other thing, the one you can't really explain, though you know when it's there É some combination of gravitas, charm and wile that when adorned with just the right Irish smile is almost a force of nature unto itself.

When I was a kid, he'd often show up out of nowhere. His house was a good hour away from ours, yet he'd never call before making the run. That was his thing–the surprise visit–and Uncle Bill executed it to perfection. Sure, he might suffer an unanswered door from time to time, but there was always another family member just a few miles down the road, happy to receive him at someone else's loss. Uncle Bill's here! would ring out once one of us had spotted him pulling up. Then a slack and deliberate exit from the sedan–and that smile–that big goddam smile that started at his eyes, ran down through his red cheeks and could light up a city block by the time it got to his teeth. Slowly, he'd right himself, arching his back, like it was stiff from the ride, and he'd puff his chest just a little when he was all the way upright. Then he'd turn his head to meet your eyes–always a few moments after he caught them. "Well hello there," he'd say. It was like the carnival had come to town.

Uncle Bill had followed his big brother into the armed forces, serving in the Army during the Korean War. A little while after he got out, Billy got on as a laborer with Hershey, which meant he never visited without a big pile of candy in tow, and was always quick to dispense treats at his house, when we'd make the drive for a warm Sunday afternoon sitting on the patio in his lush backyard. I remember how excited I was when on one visit, he told me he'd been working on the Whatchamacallit line, as he unfurled a paper bag full of my favorite childhood candy bar.

Bill's wife, Monica, had been rescued from Poland during the war and brought over to the States by a family in western Pennsylvania to whom he had been acquainted. She had lost everything in the Nazi invasion, and as I always understood it, she lost it in the horrific manner all too common in that time and place. Yet, she emerged with a warmth and strength that while born in darkness, would forever shine bright. Aunt Monica was the perfect compliment to the man who adored her. Together, they started a life with next to nothing, but went on to stamp themselves on eternity, building a beautiful thing so deeply etched into the sands of time that it will never wash away: lineage, legacy É love.

I was surprised when my uncle Bill told me as a child that he had actually been born in the house where I lived, that he'd once slept in the same bedroom that had become mine. It was the same brick half-double where his mother would be waked years later. It was where his big brother Buddy and family were living when he died, after a massive heart attack took him before his time, following his wife Millie who had passed just a few years earlier, and leaving behind four children between the ages of 12 and 24. My dad, the oldest of the kids, joined Uncle Bill on the line at Hershey, assuming head of household, as his uncle bequeathed favors and advice, while raising two treasured young daughters of his own. My family lives in that 1926 brick front to this day.

There were tough times and more tragedy, an inordinate amount of family members lost too early in life. When one of his brother's kids went astray, Uncle Bill pulled every string he could reach to get him in to the Milton Hershey School–a prestigious academy for orphaned boys. When another went back to school late in life after suffering a disability, he was there with a couple hundred bucks for a new suit to wear on job interviews. Whether someone was in a financial fix and needed new tires before the snow arrived, or had serious domestic issues and needed a few words of well-earned wisdom, Uncle Bill could cobble together a cure for whatever ailed them; holding shaky hands when someone departed, or even just offering a tempered version of that beautiful smile when there were no words to be found.

Years went by and he raised his two beautiful little girls into strong and competent women, even sending one off to Yale, while the other got on with a state legislator, tremendous sources of pride to a man from such humble beginnings. He became a doting grandfather, yet never forgot a single sheep in his forever-expanding flock. On the weekends, Uncle Bill would get in that car–Frackville, Ashland Shamokin, Centralia to the north; Annapolis, Lewis, Rehobeth to the south and many more in between I'm sure. Logging miles and clocking time with the dozens of people for whom his presence was such a tremendous comfort, Uncle Bill's gift was his arrival and the tragedy of his final years was the loss of that precious mobility; stilled of travel, no longer able to pay visits ... only receive.

As I got a little older, I began to make my own trips to see my uncle Bill. I'd drop by when I was in high school, off for an excursion at Hershey Park, or passing up the interstate on my way home for a weekend in college; then years later, when I was on leave from the service or making the trip up in the car from here in Florida. In some sort of homage, I'd never call, just drop in and take my chances that I might surprise him and perhaps pay back at least a little of the excitement his trips had given me all those years before. But most of all, I stopped by just to see that big smile–the one that made everyone feel like everything was going to be all right.

As I grew older, I realized that Uncle Bill wasn't a superhero. He wasn't rich or famous like I'd somehow always assumed he must have been when I was very young. I began to realize that he was just a hard-working man of modest means; a man who stretched himself to great lengths in order to bridge the many troubled waters encircling those he had come to watch over either by duty or default. And I realized that in being just that, he was much more than I ever could have imagined all those years before.

The poet Robert Frost once said that happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length. It's fair to say that the happiest moments have not lasted long enough for our family, but we all owe Uncle Bill a debt of gratitude for the enormous heights it often reached in his presence; for brightening our world with his kind words and lighting our way with that radiant Irish smile. In passing, he seems even bigger than he did when I was just a child. When you measure a man by the things that matter, William John Maley truly was a giant among men. May he rest in peace.

Dennis Maley is a featured columnist for The Bradenton Times. His column appears each Thursday and Sunday. Dennis' debut novel, A Long Road Home, was released in July, 2015. Click here to order your copy.