Remembering My Cousin, Kevin Keefe

Hi dear readers. Yes, another loss in our circle of family and friends: my cousin Kevin Keefe, 71, who died peacefully in early January after a long illness. These days many memories about Kevin flood my mind—what a pal he was as we grew up, what a non-judgmental person. We were born the same year; his mom and mine were close sisters. Our families shared many holidays and summertime visits during the 1950s and 1960s. Here are a few memories …

Kevin and Fort Slocum

Kevin added spark and friendship to my growing-up years. Here’s a story about his saving me from my over-active imagination. It happened in 1959 on the Army base, Fort Slocum, set up on Davids Island off the coast of New Rochelle, N.Y. were my uncle was stationed. He and his wife, Helen (my mother’s sister), and their four children lived there in a house for officers. What always struck me about that family was they all had red hair, just different shades of red. Sometimes I wished I had red hair, too, but at the time I was blonde and wore French braids my mother fixed with ribbons.

Kevin’s quick thinking to help me came one summer our family visited the Keefes at Fort Slocum. Kevin and I were both seven years old. While playing outside, along with his youngest sister, Patti, Kevin and I ran around and climbed on top of an old black Army cannon set up at the bottom of the sloping lawn near their house. Then bang! I had an idea.

The snaky idea

I’d decided I could act like a snake! I’d position myself on my tummy atop the cannon, with my feet dangling over its mouth. Then I’d slide myself feet first into the cannon, stay a second, then slither back out on top of the iron war machine to bask in the sun! That was my plan.

What I didn’t plan on was that half-way inside, my knee would get jammed. I’d bent my knees to scootch myself into position for slithering out of the cannon, but my legs would not cooperate. I couldn’t slither out. I couldn’t even push my way out. Terrified I’d be there forever, with the lower half my little body inside the cannon, my hands gripping the iron rim, my face turned skyward, I screamed, “Kevin, I’m stuck. Get my dad.”

My cousin took off running up the hill where our parents were having a happy hour on the lawn.

Next thing I knew, my dad was holding me and trying to loosen my knee, but it hurt. It wouldn’t budge, or maybe it would have, but the risk was tricky. What I remember Dad saying was, “Guess we’ll have to shoot you out!”

I did not think that was funny.

Rescued

Someone, thank goodness, ran off somewhere and brought back a stick of butter. Maybe it was Kevin, I don’t know. I do know that Dad rubbed that yellow grease around my knee and soon hauled me out into his arms, carried hysterical me up the lawn, into the Keefe’s house, and placed me in the aluminum kitchen sink to wash off the butter. To my relief, he chuckled about the whole episode; he did not scold me for my foolishness.

I can still vaguely see, through the distance of all these years, Kevin and his sisters, and my sister, my mom, and my aunt and uncle, standing around the kitchen telling their versions of what happened and patting Dad on the back and giving me hugs and me hugging Kevin.

Kevin visits the cult version of me

Years later, in 1972, Kevin travelled to Ohio to visit me. We each were twenty years old by this time. I was deep into an intense leadership training program at The Way International’s headquarters. We now know that group is a cult. Again, I was stuck in a constricting space.

While Kevin was there, I remember he was curious and non-judgmental, but, as again, we now know, he was totally oblivious like I was about corruption behind the scenes. Despite the environment, it was so kind of Kevin to show up there, and I was glad to see him even though he wouldn’t join us in our delusions!

A couple of years ago when we had a cousin reunion on Zoom, Kevin and I reminisced about that visit in Ohio. He said he’d been impressed by my dedication—a very kind way to describe my terrible zealotry and misguided obedience to a cult leader. Kevin and I were so very idealistic in our own ways at the time, and we parted in a friendly way when he left.

It seems Kevin, not me, was the one who remained true to himself and his own inclinations throughout those young adult years, loving life and making his a kind and generous one. I’m so glad I knew him. And so glad he lived to learn how I got myself out of that oversized cannon, The Way.

Keeping Kevin’s wish

One of Kevin’s loves was bicycle riding. That to me is a lovely metaphor about living life. From his obituary, here’s a little poem he wrote on this:

Endlessly long though the trek might seem,

Memories of the journey will soon become a dream.

But the end of the road is beyond our knowing,

So enjoy the ride and keep on going.

—END—

Peace to you, Kevin!

Thanks for reading!

Your writer on the wing,

Charlene

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