My mother doesn’t remember as many stories I’d like to hear. She’s told me so much, but like the proverbial cat I want to know more. “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” Funny how the full saying is rarely told to inquisitive children…but in any case, these are little things I want to remember in case my daughter asks.
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November 15, 2007 at 6:49 pm
My mother used to tell me that I should marry a man like my Uncle Bob, her father’s brother. I’m 17 now, and I’m still trying to find one—the right one. The World War II generation seemed to have plenty, but they’re rare now.
He was a kind man, retired military, a gentle giant to his tiny great-niece. But you know how our genetics are, so it’s likely he wasn’t any taller than 5′4″. He was a fisherman and gardener and marvelous chef, the only one who could get me to eat vegetables without complaint. My mother has a video of me at one year old, at Grammy’s house, going up to two orange crates full of his tomatoes and taking a gigantic little bite out of one vegetable in each. Funny, as it took me ’til my teens to like tomatoes in any form other than ketchup or Campbell’s soup. But Uncle Bob’s vegetables were special. I attribute my love for lima beans to him, as well as my dislike for squirrels. He had a squirrel trap in my garden, which I was sad about at the time, but lately I’ve been cheering the dog when he goes after the adorable furry-tailed little monsters. He kept snapping turtles in a big metal tank in the back yard, and he made snapping turtle stew Mom tells me I liked. I’m not surprised. He was a wonderful cook. He took me fishing, I remember, and I didn’t want to wear my Ariel-patterned life vest, but I’d do anything for him.
He had a trick, Uncle Bob, and it took me many years to figure it out. He could push his gums and teeth forward, without moving the rest of his head, and the little girl I was thought it was the most wonderful ability in the world. Try as I might, I never managed to do the same. I saw dentures in a cup of water by his bedside every night, but somehow I never connected the two.
He and his wife loved me very much, and I knew it with all certainty. Aunt Ida bought me an apple-patterned party dress for my fifth or sixth birthday, the summer I spent with them while Mother worked in DC. She taught me how to fold clothes, and let me watch Nickelodeon on their television. Cousin Jamie would visit and do big-girl things with me, like braid my hair, and I’d play with Aunt Ida’s pretty baby doll that cried. Every night I’d get ready for bed in my little white nightdress, beg Aunt Ida for just five more minutes, and watch black-and-white baseball on TV while sitting on his lap. I don’t know why the baseball was black and white, since I know the cartoons were in color, but that’s just the way I remember things.
This memory has a sad ending. The same week that my dog Emma died, another story, Uncle Bob was hit by a drunk driver while driving one of his beloved Broncos. He was very badly injured, and I remember Mother telling me that it was better that he died, since he wasn’t suffering any more. I couldn’t cry for Uncle Bob. I didn’t let myself. But I could cry for my pet. Sadly, we don’t often visit Aunt Ida any more, not even when we’re in Pennsylvania. She’s decided Uncle Bob was a lousy man, and that’s something I’m not willing to believe.
The same way that my mother has always felt her father there looking out for her, even though he died when she was six months old, I’ve always felt Uncle Bob’s love with me. I made a decision once to live with honor and make him proud. I forget that often. He lived with honor, for the glory of God, with love and kindness and joy. I hope to become like Uncle Bob, whose heart was so big he spread warmth like the sun.
December 26, 2007 at 6:19 pm
When I was small, about three to seven, we lived in Wisconsin. We moved back and forth between a one-story black house in Richland Center and a tall grey Victorian in Gays Mills. Mom had a patient, Jacquie, who owned a no-kill shelter, kennel, and happy puppy business with her husband. It was outside Richland Center on a hill that was near-impossible to drive up in winter. She and her husband Chuck have become like honorary grandparents to me, and we love them dearly. Their son Tim had twin girls, Emma and Maddy; now he’s remarried to the lovely Sarah and has three darling boys as well, Isaac and Tully and Andrew. Jacquie’s always owned a houseful of dogs, and the two I remember most clearly were Sophie the Great Dane and Maddy the feisty old Scottie. Maddy was terribly old and in charge of everything; she could whip any puppy into shape within minutes, and I probably should have been afraid of her. She always seemed like the sort of dog who might bite. I don’t think she ever did, and I don’t remember whether I felt anything other than a child’s let’s-make-friends curiousity towards the old coot, but she was terribly grouchy. Mother and I went through three dogs when I was small; we also had a bad-tempered grey tomcat I named Roses who ended up adopted by the neighbors when we moved. Jacquie’s magical Wyngalan Kennels provided all three of our dogs: Molly, Belle, and Emma.
Molly was a large white dog who belonged in Alaska, or at the very least the countryside. She was a Samoyed, meant to replace or possibly accompany the sweet Rosie dog we’d had when I was very small. Rosie was a darling, by all accounts, but I don’t remember her. I believe she got stolen while Mom was at work one day. Molly was not a darling. She had too much energy for us; we’d take her onto a country road and “walk” her by driving along at five miles per hour as she ran alongside the car. She often tried to run away, and eventually Mom had Jacquie find her a new home on a farm.
Belle was a crazy Sheltie. Like Molly, she had far too much energy. I remember her out behind the Gays Mills house, chasing her tail in a tizzy as I watched; Belle was more than a little odd. I don’t think we had her too long, because I doubt she was well potty-trained. I don’t remember her being trained in any other way.
We had Emma at the same time as we had both Molly and Belle; she was a sweetheart and outlasted both. I think I remember hearing “Portuguese water dog” mentioned at some point, and for a while I thought that was her breed, but my pint-sized self was incorrect. Emma was white and curly, and I think she was a Teddy. It’d make sense; she was the right size for a Bichon/Poodle mix, and Teddies have always been Jacquie’s specialty. I remember once going for a walk/drag with Mom; I may have been on roller-skates, in which case she certainly had Molly while I took little Emma. On other days, I know I tried and failed to walk the gigantic Samoyed, who had to have been twice my size. Emma was special to me. We had Emma and Jacquie had Maddy, and we all loved the humans Emma and Maddy as well. The humans are a couple of years younger than I am, and they were two of my favorite playmates when I was little. As of a week before 2008, we still more-or-less keep in touch with the girls, their grandparents, and Tim and Sarah. My sweet Emma dog hasn’t lasted this long, I’m afraid; she was stung by a bee the same week Mom and I went out of town to work for a bit at a hospital I remember as being “up north”. Mom and I held her in the cool of the basement; we thought she’d gotten heatstroke from the summer weather. No place else in the house was cool. Eventually my mother took the dog to the vet, who decided he had to try and convert my mother to Christianity. Lunatic Protestants. What’s with these born-again people? Mother and I had been Orthodox Christian for some point at this time, but he didn’t seem to want to listen. We had to leave for Mom’s upcoming job, so we left Emma with our funny, quirky friends the Jerretts. A few days later, in that gorgeous log cabin we stayed in, we got the phone call that she had died. I can’t honestly say how long we were there, but it was summer when we arrived and I seem to remember having a Christmas there. I got a lovely natural-looking tree dollhouse with little elf/troll dolls made out of wood. I still love that treehouse. I also remember seeing that cute animated movie called Oliver and Co. while we were there. Mom and I were watching it in an upstairs bedroom when we got a phone call, but I can’t remember whether it was Emma or Uncle Bob who had died at that instant. I just remember that both did, and I didn’t let myself cry for my great-uncle. Not out of pride, not out of strength; I think perhaps I felt he deserved better.
April 17, 2009 at 12:38 pm
I hope you know your Auntie Megan. She’s been a good friend since 8th grade, but my sister since the 9th. She is one of the dearest people in my life.
Actually, in 8th grade we were simply classmates who enjoyed each other’s company at school I never saw her outside of class. But she was fun, and vibrant, and I liked her. And she seemed fond of me too. However, she was not fond of Central, the school we went to. (Central Campus had advanced classes, technical courses, world languages, and JROTC. We were in Central Academy, the section with the advanced courses, for part of the day; we had home schools we took most of our courses at, at least then. Later we both homeschooled and took all/most our classes at Central.) She disliked the pressure from her parents, so she deliberately dropped out. That’s Megan for you!
In spring of 9th grade she walked into the JROTC classroom suite while I was standing with friends by the front desk. We recognized each other, exclaimed, and she signed up for the class period I was in. And we became inseparable.
I do not have time to tell you all of our exploits today. But suffice it to say, without her influence I’d be more of a stick-in-the-mud. And without mine, that wild child would be in a whole peck of trouble!
She is wild, headstrong, kindhearted, generous, and strong-willed. She is a living adventure. I am proud to be her big sister, and I am glad she is in our lives.