June 1, 2005

• Uncle John died yesterday.  He was 92.  “Old age” would probably be an adequate cause-of-death.  Uncle John was a tall (especially for our family) handsome man with an engaging smile, a civil engineer by profession.  He was one of those people who you liked immediately when he looked your way and his faced turned into a warm welcome.  I spent most of my time with him when I was young; seems that there were more family gatherings then.  We made a few trips to their house which was 2-3 hours away.  My recollection of their home relies heavily on my adolescent memories; foggy at best.  But, I want to describe their home here because, in my view, Uncle John’s home and family was his defining element.  Like my dad, Uncle John and the rest of the brood (six brothers and two sisters), held the family as the center of their lives.  The home was the family’s base.  They had a beautiful 40s-50s style white house.  The yard was a reflection of farm upbringing.  Beautiful trees and hedges gave a warmth to the yard that is still tangible to me.  The yard was trimmed and neat but, not overly manicured.  The back yard was flat and inviting; plenty of room for badminton and croquet.  Then there was Uncle John’s fruit trees and grape arbor.  I always suspected a bit of competition between the “brothers” when it came to their fruit trees, gardens, and grapes.  I’ll go out on a limb and say that Uncle John may have been the winner.  As a child, we spent all of our time outside; only going into the house to loop through the kitchen, load up a plate, and race outside for the best spot under the tree.  I may have used the bathroom, but I don’t recall much of the interior of the house (too many convenient places outside).

  
  

   

  
  

  The Garage

  
  

  I have to admit to myself that even my vague memories of the garage may not resemble the actual building anymore, but it is one of those images that always come to mind when I think about Uncle John and his home place.  It was a long white structure; wood not metal or vinyl.  The character that is lost in the new building structures is hard to describe.  There was a temperamental door as I remember; one that required the right knack and a little muscle to get open.  The car would fit in and for the most part the yard tools were neat and orderly.  The “old car” sat in the rear.  It was a family treasure; a keeper, an heir loom; something that could not be discarded.  At least part of the floor was dirt.  The oil that soaked in the ground, the wood, and the slight musty smell all combined to give the odor of something old and special.  A sanctuary where you kept your tools, sharpened the hedge trimmers, and displayed the treasured car.  The canoe that navigated the lakes on the yearly northern fishing trips hung from the rafters.

  
  

   

  
  

  Like I said, the accuracy of my memories is undoubtedly wanting, but that is ok with me. When I think of Uncle John, I will always see that half chuckling smile, the home, his family, and the garage; and I will feel good inside.  

  • 9:13 am
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