#17 ‘RegardLess’

ELEMENTARY

17.

‘RegardLess’

‘SelfLess’ ( Part I )

Ever since I was a small child, I liked sneaking away in my grandparents’ house into a not that much visited room full of unorganised life and history. I loved to hide in there, connecting bits and pieces of objects, wondering where they came from, what they might have been used for, and who they belonged to in the past. It was a room full of stories, a lot of black and white photos, some torn in half, or with someone cut out, all over the drawers. I liked to try to find the missing pieces and put them together, wondering what could have happened to trigger that act of violence.

One of those fascinating things, inhabiting the drawers of the rarely visited room, were the red, round cartridges of a dangerous object hanging above my grandparents' bed, my grandfather’s hunting gun. 

At first, I associated that gun with the happy ending of the story of the Little Red Riding Hood, later it got a bit more serious when I learned that Bambi lost his mother because a hunter shot her. But then, one day, I realised that that particular gun was occasionally used to bring home relaxed, lifeless bodies of wild rabbits, pheasants, deer and other innocent protagonists of a real Bambi story. They were praised as a delicacy, but I could never eat them during those festive lunches. The taste was too strong, and the fear of finding the round remains of the deadly lead bullets in meat would be very unappetising!

Into that uninhabited room, I also used to sneak in my little cousin Jozsef. As a twelve-year-old young female, I was fascinated by his chubby little feet, toothless gum, the clear and curious look in his blue eyes... It was my observation and bonding time with the baby. 

The baby was the third Jozsef in our family line. According to the Hungarian tradition, firstborn children are named after their parents. You might think that it was confusing knowing which Jozsef we meant in conversations, but, the subtle variations of the name and ultimately, the intonation and colour of voice were mainly enough for us to know. There was Joska with a tone of respect, Jozsi with mostly anger or wariness in a voice, or Joskacska or Joki with a melted heart... Still, “Which Jozsef?”  was an often asked question…

From the moment he was born, the newest Jozsef was the promise and the pride of our family. He was healthy, he was a boy, and with him, a new hope was born. Hope that all will be finally in balance, and so peace and happiness could be achieved after all that previous trauma. 

Soon the theory, that his father, my uncle Jozsef, would stop drinking and become a responsible man taking good care of his family, unfortunately, proved wrong. 

Years were passing and the smallest Jozsef was growing, taken good care of by his loving mother and grandparents. I was following from the background of how he started his violin lessons. He was a cheeky little boy, full of life in his legs… He was a smart little boy that could explain almost anything with one humorous sentence. He saw terrible things and endured many deviations of human nature he encountered at home. From a very young age, he was protecting his mother and a disabled sister from abuse. He was growing into a tall and handsome, talented young man. The violin 'grew' into a viola too, which suited his length, strength and character much better… Years were passing, and we were witnessing the growth of human values, despite all the odds. He never complained, was always brave, stayed calm and focused on his priorities, being there for his loved ones. Turning into a respected musician. 

I most admire him for his compassion for all the people in our dysfunctional but so lively family full of stubborn, talented, colourful characters.

Our grandmother would occasionally bring him a glass of warm milk before bedtime, even to a disco! Yes, it was bizarre. It would be experienced by most of the young teenagers an insult on their privacy, freedom, right to grow up… but not for Jozsef. Every time his friends would let him know that she is at the door of the disco, he went out to the street, took the mug of warm milk, drunk it, said thank you and went on having a party with his friends. The fascinating aspect of this story is that although astonished, no-one made fun of him for this. His true compassion and understanding radiated around him, and you could only respect it. You would immediately understand that there are reasons for his actions. That is something that opened a lot of doors later on in his life.

Grandfather Jozef died suddenly and unannounced, triggering my grandmother’s, until then not noticed, Alzheimer's disease. It led to her passing very shortly after him too. The family found themselves suddenly too busy with serious problems and battles due to a shift of the axe on which life and support system turned till then. Years were passing in a cacophony of emotional drama, and we forgot to bring the gun to the authorities to get it deactivated.  None of us had hunting aspirations and a licence for possession of such a weapon. It was still hanging in a bedroom above the empty bed, in its silent, deadly power, not belonging to anyone.

Maybe one day I will write the story of how my uncle broke every bone on the left side of his body during his first delirium. How, after being chained to a hospital bed long enough and agreeing to a treatment, he was sober for six years. Maybe I will tell you how, on the most beautiful white cheerful wedding day of his son, the first glass of transparent delicious poison found its way back into his and our lives again. And maybe I will tell you, how one day a marital fight went out of control and my cousin Jozef found himself standing in front of the two pipes of that same grandpa's gun as a protection shield. There was a struggle. There were two shots. Two of those fascinating red round cartridges were liberated, leaving two bullet holes in the porch ceiling to remind us of the apotheosis of our colourful family’s history. There was the police, both my uncle and the illegal weapon were taken into custody. We never saw the gun again, and I never wanted to see my uncle either...

For now, I will just leave it at the point where I admire and love ‘my little brother’, the one closest to me and that shares the same blue colour of eyes, humour and stamina and is a force of compassion. I admire him for being brave enough and taking the family further, with confidence and strength. He sets an example of how falling is just another step in moving on, regardless of all the odds.