For years, I feared the window of opportunity would close if I procrastinated too long. Yet I did, and it did as well.
Albert Archambeault, my mother’s only brother and my last surviving uncle, died on Nov. 17, 2012. An extraordinarily active and robust man (he lived alone and still drove around town until a few weeks before his death), Albert’s decline was swift. So his death still came as a shock, despite the fact that he was 92 years old.
Many years ago, when both of my parents were still living, I interviewed them about their lives. I later transcribed these oral histories and stored the recordings for safekeeping. From time to time, as the years wore on, I’d tell my wife Liz that I should interview Uncle Albert too.
But I never did.
A blunt, funny, fast-talking, good-natured guy with a heavy accent, Albert was born in Connecticut but grew up in a French-speaking home in Massachusetts. He enlisted in the Army during World War II, won a Purple Heart in France, married Theresa Champagne after the war and eventually became a successful building contractor.
I know a fair amount about the life of "mon oncle." I know he dropped out of high school to learn carpentry from his gruff, Québec-born father, Wilbrod Archambeault, with whom Albert worked for a time.
I know he received the Purple Heart after the truck he was driving hit a mine in France in July 1944, tossing him from the vehicle. Pinned down under the truck, he suffered a fractured pelvis. Army doctors told him he would never walk again, but he proved them wrong.
I know Albert and his father eventually had a falling out, and that they never patched things up before my grandfather died in 1986.
I know Albert visited his wife daily during the long nursing home stay that preceded her death in 2006. He loved chess, and was a skillful player.
I remember Albert as a remarkably even-tempered man who almost always was cheerful, no matter what obstacles life threw in his path. As the priest who eulogized him at his funeral said, my uncle took great joy from helping others, and he continued wielding a hammer until the end. A neighbor told us at the wake that Albert freely shared his encyclopedic knowledge of carpentry and the building trades with do-it-yourselfers.
But there are so many questions I should have asked Albert when I had the chance. What was it like being the only boy in a family of four children? Did he regret not finishing high school? Why did he enlist? How did he feel about the war? Did he become depressed while recovering from his injuries? Was it hard establishing his own business? What caused the rift with his father? Why were he and Aunt Theresa childless? And on and on and on.
Now that chance has been lost, and I have no one to blame but myself. Still, I’m left with my memories of Albert, as well as the stories that my brother David, who was especially close to him, tells about our uncle. Sifting through my chats with my late mother, Rita, I’ve found a few references to her brother and favorite sibling. (They were only a year apart in age.) Mom's recollections are no substitute for a talk with the man himself, but they place him in the context of his family.
For example, my mother recalled how she, her two sisters and their parents learned that Albert had been wounded overseas. Mom never saw her father Wilbrod cry, but she heard him sobbing uncontrollably at the news of Albert’s injuries.
Albert "was in a cast from his neck down for quite a while" before he eventually returned home to Southbridge, Mass., Mom said. "When we got the news, it was a telegram. My mother was crying." But Wilbrod seemed stoic, at least for the first few minutes. "Well, we can’t do anything about it," he told his wife and daughters.
"All of a sudden, he went downstairs (into the basement) and he was crying," Mom recalled. Weeping. Bawling. Crying so hard that his daughters feared for his life. One of Wilbrod’s brothers was summoned, but he advised the family not to intervene. Wilbrod "was holding on to a post (in the basement) and we were all crying upstairs. He couldn’t catch his breath. We thought he was going to die down there."
Mom said Albert’s war wounds caused him pain throughout his long life, but I never heard him gripe about it. I’m sure whatever he told my mother over the years about the lingering effects of his injuries was more in the line of an observation than a complaint.
Although Albert Emile Archambeault had his faults and foibles, like all of us, he hailed from a family, and a generation, that did not stomach whiners. As I’m sure he would have made crystal clear if I had sat him down with a tape recorder and a long list of questions, to ask him about the hand that fate dealt him.
Many years ago, when both of my parents were still living, I interviewed them about their lives. I later transcribed these oral histories and stored the recordings for safekeeping. From time to time, as the years wore on, I’d tell my wife Liz that I should interview Uncle Albert too.
But I never did.
A blunt, funny, fast-talking, good-natured guy with a heavy accent, Albert was born in Connecticut but grew up in a French-speaking home in Massachusetts. He enlisted in the Army during World War II, won a Purple Heart in France, married Theresa Champagne after the war and eventually became a successful building contractor.
I know a fair amount about the life of "mon oncle." I know he dropped out of high school to learn carpentry from his gruff, Québec-born father, Wilbrod Archambeault, with whom Albert worked for a time.
I know he received the Purple Heart after the truck he was driving hit a mine in France in July 1944, tossing him from the vehicle. Pinned down under the truck, he suffered a fractured pelvis. Army doctors told him he would never walk again, but he proved them wrong.
I know Albert and his father eventually had a falling out, and that they never patched things up before my grandfather died in 1986.
I know Albert visited his wife daily during the long nursing home stay that preceded her death in 2006. He loved chess, and was a skillful player.
I remember Albert as a remarkably even-tempered man who almost always was cheerful, no matter what obstacles life threw in his path. As the priest who eulogized him at his funeral said, my uncle took great joy from helping others, and he continued wielding a hammer until the end. A neighbor told us at the wake that Albert freely shared his encyclopedic knowledge of carpentry and the building trades with do-it-yourselfers.
But there are so many questions I should have asked Albert when I had the chance. What was it like being the only boy in a family of four children? Did he regret not finishing high school? Why did he enlist? How did he feel about the war? Did he become depressed while recovering from his injuries? Was it hard establishing his own business? What caused the rift with his father? Why were he and Aunt Theresa childless? And on and on and on.
Now that chance has been lost, and I have no one to blame but myself. Still, I’m left with my memories of Albert, as well as the stories that my brother David, who was especially close to him, tells about our uncle. Sifting through my chats with my late mother, Rita, I’ve found a few references to her brother and favorite sibling. (They were only a year apart in age.) Mom's recollections are no substitute for a talk with the man himself, but they place him in the context of his family.
For example, my mother recalled how she, her two sisters and their parents learned that Albert had been wounded overseas. Mom never saw her father Wilbrod cry, but she heard him sobbing uncontrollably at the news of Albert’s injuries.
Albert "was in a cast from his neck down for quite a while" before he eventually returned home to Southbridge, Mass., Mom said. "When we got the news, it was a telegram. My mother was crying." But Wilbrod seemed stoic, at least for the first few minutes. "Well, we can’t do anything about it," he told his wife and daughters.
"All of a sudden, he went downstairs (into the basement) and he was crying," Mom recalled. Weeping. Bawling. Crying so hard that his daughters feared for his life. One of Wilbrod’s brothers was summoned, but he advised the family not to intervene. Wilbrod "was holding on to a post (in the basement) and we were all crying upstairs. He couldn’t catch his breath. We thought he was going to die down there."
Mom said Albert’s war wounds caused him pain throughout his long life, but I never heard him gripe about it. I’m sure whatever he told my mother over the years about the lingering effects of his injuries was more in the line of an observation than a complaint.
Although Albert Emile Archambeault had his faults and foibles, like all of us, he hailed from a family, and a generation, that did not stomach whiners. As I’m sure he would have made crystal clear if I had sat him down with a tape recorder and a long list of questions, to ask him about the hand that fate dealt him.
No comments:
Post a Comment