My cousin Brendan O’Connor passed away Wednesday. He died in Tampa, Florida, at eighty-three years of age after a prolonged illness. It’s unnerving: I never thought of my first cousin as “old”.
I first met Brendan when I was six. We were living in Cincinnati in the early 1960’s, and Brendan came “to visit”. My mother was from England, and her large family was still there. Brendan was the son of her oldest brother Leslie, and like his sister before, he came to visit America and stay with his aunt and uncle. It was a family tradition. Before “the war” (World War II) Mom stayed with Leslie and his wife Marjorie in Belgium, and she was happy to repay the favor.
Leslie was killed flying his personal aero plane in 1959, so when Brendan arrived in 1962, fresh out of the British Army, the accident was still fresh. But I didn’t know about all that. What I knew was that this HUGE man, my cousin, was here. You see, I would grow up to be by far the tallest in our immediate family at 5’7” – so we are short group. When Brendan arrived at 6’2” or more, he seemed enormous, and very climbable.
Brendan stayed for a month or two, exploring Cincinnati, then I think he went back home to England. But a few months later he was back, this time to stay and make his life here in America.
Brendan ultimately took US citizenship, but he was always, as Gilbert and Sullivan would say, “an Englishman!!”. He was a big man, kind hearted, with that British accent. When he came in the door there was always a big “Hel—Lo!!!”, always two parts with the pause in the middle. He became a salesman, finding a niche in selling artificial flowers. First it was in Cincinnati, then he moved out all through the Midwest. Everyone knew the big Englishman with a trunk full of flowers and a hearty laugh.
For a long time, Brendan was “on the road”, travelling from town to town selling his products. When I turned sixteen, I bought my first car from him. It was a 1969 Plymouth Fury III, and it was only three years old – a new car to me. But the Plymouth already had well over a hundred thousand miles. Bren covered his “territory” many times, across Iowa and Kansas, Indiana and Illinois.
But he always stayed in touch, close to the family and particularly to Mom. When he fell asleep at the wheel and literally drove into a train, Bren left his totaled car in Kansas and came straight to Cincinnati to recover. And he was always back to Mom’s house for holidays and birthdays, and especially Christmas. Mom made everything “English” for Christmas. For Brendan it was just like home. He was a part of our family, and he was definitely Mom’s favorite.
Brendan found Carolyn, and they got married and settled in Chicago. We saw a bit less of him then, but still stay connected. And there were the “happenstances” (what Mom would call one of her “coincidences”). Mom and Dad, my sister Terry and her husband and kids, and I were on summer vacation on Cape Cod. Brendan knew we were there, but no plans were made. I don’t think he even knew we were at a house in Chatham.
We were exploring, and stopped at a grocery store. As we got our supplies, we heard a familiar voice on the other side of the shelves. “Mom – I think Brendan and Carolyn are here!” There was a joyous reunion in the parking lot!
Brendan became involved in the “British” club in Chicago. And while he was proud of his English heritage, he also was proud of his adopted country, now thirty years his home. He applied for American citizenship, and was honored to take on the obligations of our country. So he had both, the Englishman and now the American. It was a good life.
Unfortunately Carolyn got sick, leaving Brendan a widower far too soon. He was just sad, alone. So he closed up his Chicago operation and moved to Tarpon Springs, on the Gulf of Mexico just north of Tampa. He got involved there too, President of the Tarpon Springs Kiwanis and part of the Florida governing board. And he met Mary, a retired school administrator and also a widow. They soon fell in love and married.
They found a beautiful house tucked away on along the golf course, opening to their own swimming pool in the back. Brendan and Mary were more than just Florida retirees. They stayed involved in the community and church. They went on cruises with their friends, and entertained poolside at their home. And they stayed connected to his family here in Ohio.
And when Brendan got sick, it was Mary who stood by him, taking care and managing hospitals, nursing homes and doctors.
I last saw Brendan at his 80th birthday party, at their home in Tarpon Springs. Family was “represented” – I drove over from Sebastian where Jenn and I were camping, my sister Pat flew in from New York, and Brendan’s nephew David came in from England. Brendan was already battling illness, but we all had a good time reminiscing about the past and avoiding present politics. At breakfast Sunday morning, Brendan, aware of his own mortality, asked me if I would do the eulogy for his funeral.
Funerals are complicated in this age of COVID. There will be a memorial service in Tarpon Springs sometime next month, and I hope in can attend. But I made a promise to a cousin, a friend, an American and an Englishman. He led a good life, an adventurous life, and a life that made those around him better. What more can anyone ask for?
Rest in well-earned Peace Brendan: we will miss your “Hel-Lo!!”
