« just a lonely old bill | Main | count along with the count »
June 4, 2007
uncle jim
When I was a kid, Uncle Jim represented hope. He was, after all, my only male relative in anyone's memory to have retained his hair. And a lush shock of black Polish hair it was. I clung to Uncle Jim, hoping that I too got a winning ticket in whatever genetic lottery he'd won.
Alas. Perhaps he was adopted.
He represented hope in another, crucial way. Uncle Jim was my only relative who was consistently kind. Even though I was a mere bud in a sprawling Polish-Catholic family tree, he always sought me out, genially chatted me up, connected with me, made sure I felt included. If you want to be beloved forever, do that with the youngest of 20-some-odd cousins. It was impossible to believe that this gentle, decent man was composed of essentially the same genetic material as my father.
Uncle Jim was married to my Aunt Jo, a shrewish, jealous woman about whom I have no fond memories whatsoever. No one liked her except him. Her funeral was a vaguely happy occasion for most of us. Not Uncle Jim, of course. He was devastated. But he would get over that, and life would be better for all.
It's been decades. He still hasn't gotten over it. Their home is a shrine to her. As often as not, conversations of any genre seem to lead back to her. A mere mention of Aunt Jo elicits bona fide blubbering. He visits her grave every day to tell her the goings on. He never considered getting remarried; there was no time in his busy grieving schedule during which he might meet women.
The grieving period of his long life has lasted three-fourths of my own. When I was a kid, I thought he was just a sentimental wuss. "Jesus Christ. Get over it already," I thought. "Live your life." And truthfully, a part of me will always feel that way. As I've plowed through adulthood myself, though, leaving a trail of alternately inconsequential and serious relationships in my wake, I've viewed Uncle Jim's grief through a slightly different lens. Simply put, no one's ever loved me that much, nor I them. I don't envy him, exactly, but I do increasingly admire his depth of feeling. I don't particularly want to hurt like that, but I really wouldn't mind loving like that. It's a comfort to know that someone can—especially someone composed of essentially the same genetic material as me.
Hopefully he wasn't adopted.
posted by john at 6:12 AM • permalink