Lionheart

A Rose List Joint

“Men don’t follow titles, they follow courage.” – William Wallace

That line resonated with me in 1995 and gratefully still does today. I am not writing about that movie or the terrible Van Damme flick. Today’s inspiration is a cousin of mine.

I learned about a “ROSE LIST” about a month ago. A Rose List is the opposite of a list of people you need to make amends with; these are people you want to thank or recognize for helping or inspiring you on your journey.

My cousin Alison is on my list. I went to her paternal grandmother’s funeral yesterday. I went to her maternal grandmother’s funeral (my wonderful aunt Judi) in 2016.

During the eulogy, a cousin of Alison, whom I have not met, said their grandmother called Alison her “STAR”. She said it in her grandmother’s Boston accent, which we all appreciated.

Alison has a theater background, and she still could become a star, a name we see in lights. She has a presence, I notice when she’s around, and I look for her at family events. She sat with me for a few at my father’s mercy meal. It was a warm and comfortable sit between two cousins, 25ish years apart in age.

Also, she has guts.

I appreciate the ceremony of a funeral. Whenever something extra is said, a song is played, or, best of all, a song is performed to commence a funeral at the gravesite, it always moves me.

When we laid the MANDER down to rest (Dennis Lehane), I came close to singing Forever Young (Dylan, not Stewart) at the cemetery. I had an inner dialogue like Cameron Frye standing over my friend’s final resting spot. I did the safe thing, the sane thing, and stayed quiet. There is a strong chance it would have been self-indulgent, sad, and awful.

At the cemetery, following my Aunt Judi's being laid to rest, my cousin stepped up, holding a ukulele in her hand, and sang “Hey Jude.” She strummed the mini guitar, started singing softly and in tune, and delivered a beautiful tribute to Judi. We eventually all joined in the “naaaaaah nah nah nah nah naaaaahs” but only after she led us there.

Alison sang a communal Beatles song about her grandmother, practically standing on top of her grandmother in front of 50-plus people.

Not many people can do that.

Forget the talent and focus on the courage. Talent is God given, courage you have to forge from within. Doing courageous acts in public gives others the confidence to do shit they are afraid to do. It’s the “cousin” of doing the right or nice thing* when nobody is watching.

I have a lot of experience with death and even more with church. I have given more eulogies than best man speeches (4-2) and been a pallbearer as many times as I have been a groomsman.

I was the lone pallbearer at my niece’s funeral in 1999. Dale Marie died of SIDS. She was only a few weeks old. I was in Stratford, England, with the Salem State College Sociology Club (I was not a member) when I called home and my uncle Paul handed the phone over to my mom, who delivered the news.

I made it home, a drunken, grieving mess. My brother and three of my friends showed up at Logan Airport to pick me up.

The next day, I carried a casket holding Dale Marie to the altar of Saint Agnes Church. My cousin, David, told me it “was the bravest thing he has ever seen.”

That same cousin’s nickname is Batman. So he’s seen some shit.

As incredible as the “Hey Jude” performance was, it’s not the image or moment I think of when I think of my cousin Alison. In or around 2012, we were all up at our family beach house called Magnolia.

In 1970, my grandmother (Mimi) and Alison’s grandmother (Aunt Judi) bought an old inn in Wells, Maine. This house and its carriage house today host our 4th generation of Jellisons.

On this Summer day, I was the lone “adult” with 7 kids. Alison was the oldest (13), and my son D’Brickashaw was the youngest (2). Four of the other five kids belonged to my brother, and the last was my oldest, Phoenix.

All of my nieces and nephews I treat like my own. My mother referred to all of her grandchildren as “our kids.” She meant it, and I always listened to my mom.

On this day, I have cousin Alison in the fold. Barely a teenager, and a kid I don’t know all that well. As boredom starts to creep into the Carriage House, I decide it’s time to go to the Boardwalk Arcade. The arcade is always a hit, albeit a fucking money pit and an exercise in extreme patience (the ticket trade-in at the end is the fucking worst!!).

I was worried Alison would not want to go, and then the other kids would follow suit. Once she was in, I expected her to act “too cool for school” when we got there.

Alison played all the games, laughed at the fun stuff, laughed at the stupid shit. Instead of being too old for the little kids’ shit, she decided to embrace the fun of being with her cousins. She even turned in her tickets and got a prize.

As we walked out back to the car, she handed her cousin John (my Godson) the inflatable shark she just won. “I won this for you,” Alison said. It wasn’t the gesture of a smart ass; it was a sweet and cute gesture between two cousins barely into their teens. Neither worried about being cool, just being nice.

I told Alison yesterday that she is awesome, unique, and special, but I didn’t tell her why.

It’s on the internet now.

Alison doesn’t need her name on Hollywood Blvd for me, either of her grandmothers, or I’m sure many others to know she is a star.

If you read this, do me a favor and tell someone you appreciate them and tell them specifically why. Don’t wait till they're gone to find the courage to tell them they are wonderful.

Eulogies are easier when you have already told the person you're honoring how much they mean to you.

*Same fucking thing