In Olde English his name means “one who lives by the stoney grove, a blessed guardian, happy protector”. He was named after Major General Edwards the commander of the 26th Yankee Division during World War I, one of the most decorated divisions and one of the longest under fire during that war. Aunt Sally called him Bick, his childhood nickname after a local cowboy, so naturally we called him Uncle Bick.
They lived downstairs and we lived up in a two family house on Congreve Street in Roslindale. It was during a time that a multi-family unit meant exactly that; the apartments were occupied by multiple family members; brothers & sisters, aunts & uncles, grandparents & cousins, with each one on our street representing a different nationality. One of the loneliest still photos in my mind of my childhood was tiptoed on the porch peering through their back door window with a neighbor boy showing him that they truly had moved out.
Since Uncle Bick worked at night I remember him to always be sleeping. Half the time we were told not to wake him up, the other half someone was being told to wake him up for it was time to eat, or Sheba needed to go out, or the sink had overflowed. And we all have our stories of what we were doing when he randomly appeared out of no where and caught us in the backyard.
I cried my first few days of kindergarten so it was recommended that he walk me to school with Christopher instead of my mother. We marched in silence, although I remember how free it felt to turn the corner to Longfellow without a tear, and without a fear because he was two paces behind us. He let me run ahead to the girls schoolyard gate and I watched his tall slender figure through the wrought iron fence, the long strides toward home, as he smiled and waved goodbye. He was there when we got out. This time the walk was filled with laughter and chatter and the sharing of papers and paintings as he fell further behind.
One Christmas the family drew names for gifts and gathered at Sittoo Helen’s to open them. I had just turned 18 and moved into my first apartment. When I ripped the wrapping paper it only revealed the bottom half of my gift. I had to check the tag to make sure it was mine for I thought for sure I got the wrong one...it was screwdrivers. They were mine, “To Renee, love your Secret Santa”. It was only when I tore the remaining piece that I saw the handles where no ordinary set, they were rounded and tinted orange and pretty. I scanned the faces of my family and found Uncle Bick’s beaming from across the living room. ”Every lady needs her own set of screwdrivers”. I still have them and imagine after this service my Stanley set will mysteriously appear one by one back into my office.
But what I remember the most about my aunt and uncle was the day they both approached me to tell me that they were praying for me. Her concerned look as she gently touched my arm and him towering over her with that same “I have a secret” smile, but this time it was the mystery of the Kingdom of Heaven. They were believers, they had the joy of the Lord, she worshipped Him in song and dance. They taught me in that brief moment that Jesus was not only behind me, but before me, beneath me, above me, beside me, to win me, with me and within me, to comfort and restore me, in quiet, in danger, in the hearts of all who love me and mouth of friend and stranger.
When you are 90 years old what you are blessed with the most is time; in fact, it was the question he asked the most. ”What time is it?” And some may have thought that he was brought to Diana’s to die; but that is not true. He came to Hopedale to live. And he lived each day like a soldier, and a cowboy, and a warrior with love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness and faith.
Read at his funeral at Stratford Street Church, West Roxbury MA, September 19, 2014
Uncle Bick
Stanley Edward Kehoe
