I thought that everyone should know my
Uncle Jimmy, so when I was in first grade, I took him to school for Show and
Tell. He was my favorite uncle for a number of reasons. He loved me and showed
it in a multitude of ways. He listened and laughed at my childhood jokes. He was patient, and my father wasn’t, so it
was especially nice to have a male family member who was. He didn’t have
children of his own, so he and my aunt invited me to spend summers with them in
Michigan. Uncle Jimmy was a milkman, and his truck was full of treats. He
always had chocolate milk, ice cream, and even soft drinks. At the end of my
day, after riding my bike or playing in the sprinklers, he’d return home and
let me ravage through the back of the refrigerated truck. I could get what I
wanted and we would sit together on the back porch. While I enjoyed my treats,
he would tell me about the people on his route. He always had good stories. And for
some unknown reason, from my earliest days, he always called me his little chick.
He and my aunt often took me on vacations
with them. We went to the World’s Fair in New York City and to the International
Exposition in Montreal, to Niagara Falls, and other places of interest. Uncle
Jimmy saw each excursion as an educational opportunity. At each site, he would
ask a plethora of questions. In turn, he passed his new understanding on to me. He also taught me how to
drive, and attempted to teach me all about the Stock Market.
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Kaye traveled to be
part of every big event in my life. They came five hundred miles for my high
school and college graduations. They paid for my wedding dress and were present
for the big day. They traveled to Texas when I had my first child and later
came to Tennessee for my second.
My sweet uncle wiped my tears when life
became difficult for me, and then it got difficult for him. It was just the
little things at first. You know how we can become a little forgetful with age.
So, it didn’t seem a worry in the beginning. Then, my brother, his golf
partner, noticed that his game was a little off. Uncle Jimmy was a great golfer,
and Billy seldom approached his score, but that began to change. Then, one day,
Uncle Jimmy left the course, and couldn’t find his way home. The police found
him on the side of the road in tears. He was lost and could not remember his
address of thirty years. It was Alzheimer’s. It broke my heart to see his
decline.
Because I lived so far
away, I didn’t see him but a couple of times a year. I called my aunt every
Sunday to check on him and visited when I could. The changes became more
evident with time. Many Alzheimer’s patients become belligerent, but he was an
exception. He kept his sweet gentle attitude. One obvious change was that my
uncle was singing. I had never ever heard him sing. Now he was singing funny
commercial ditties from the 1940’s. His favorite was a Pepsi jingle. He would
sing and laugh, and I’d laugh with him.
As the condition worsened, my aunt had to
do more and more for him. The time came when he could no longer bathe or shave
himself. He couldn’t feed himself or even swallow without help. Uncle Jimmy
could no longer walk on his own. There was nothing wrong with his legs, but his
brain could no longer give his limbs the needed signal.
Before I made my last visit, my aunt
prepared him. She told him that I was coming and showed him old photos, hoping
to spark a memory of me. I arrived at their home at night, and he was already
in bed asleep. My aunt said that though she’d been trying to help him remember,
I shouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t recognize me or remember my name. The next
morning, my aunt saw him trying to get out of bed by himself. She asked what he
was doing. Uncle Jimmy said, “I’m going to see my little chick.” He remembered, if only for a little while. That
night, after supper, my aunt settled him into his favorite chair in the den and
turned on the TV. She left me to keep an eye on him while she washed dishes. After
finishing, she brought him a cup of coffee. He thanked her. Then, after she
left the room, he looked at me and said, “You’re my little chick, and you know
I’ve always thought you were such a pretty little thing. But, isn’t she the
most beautiful woman in the world? She takes such good care of me.” At this
point, my aunt was white headed, somewhat bent over, and they’d been married
for over 60 years. His lucid moments were few at this point, but his love and
appreciation prevailed until the end.
Our family history is a collection of
stories. There are many who help shape our lives. If we evaluate those
relationships, we realize that there is something to be learned from each of
them. Uncle Jimmy has been gone for years. Yet here I am, over a decade later,
bringing him for show and tell.
It occurs to me that we all impact the
lives of those we touch. I need to be cognizant of that, so that my touch will
be gentle, kind, and supportive. I want to be remembered with love and laughter
as stories are told. I want to sing silly songs and show gratitude for kind
acts and be remembered as a woman of faith. I will be part of someone else’s
story; so will you. How do you want to be remembered?
