My dad always called him Charlie. Grandma called him Charles. But to all of us cousins he was Uncle Chuck. Chuck was larger than life, and sometimes twice as loud. On the outside he was tough as nails, could swear like a longshoreman and spoke his mind. But he treated us kids with fatherly warmth and love. He was married to my dad's youngest sister, Auntie Alice. You couldn't refer to one of them without saying Chuck n' Alice. They raised 3 boys, our cousins, and their house out in the country was a gathering place for the family, a fantastic place for kids to roam, have fun, have adventures. There were hills, trees, ravines, and a swamp. This place had Disneyland beat hands down. When all the young cousins got together it was always an adventure. The grown ups would hang around the house and the kids would roam at will; no one worried about our safety. We were allowed to be kids.
One summer we pitched some tents and camped out on the other side of the big ravine. The fun attraction that year was riding across the ravine on a converted manure bucket (if you don't know what that is, you have lived a sheltered life). Chuck had taken the manure hauler out of their barn, removed the bucket, and attached a platform. He then stretched a cable across the ravine between 2 trees, one side higher than the other. You'd pull the carrier back, jump on while someone held a rope, then they'd let go of the rope. You'd zoom across the ravine to the other side. No safety lines, no helmet, nothing between you and the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet down. (the scale as seen by a 10 year old). This was called having fun. Chuck was a draftsman, a toolmaker, and was an incredibly smart guy. And he didn't do anything small. So, when his boys wanted some fun, he would engineer some fun.
During this camp out someone thought it would be a good idea to smoke mice out of a tree. Again, if you don't know what that means, you have lived a sheltered life. We smoked some mice out of the partially hollow tree, and eventually we all went to sleep in tents. Sometime in the early morning I woke up, stuck my head out of the tent and couldn't help noticing that the tree was on fire. Engulfed. Not smoldering, not smoking. On fire. We tried to extinguish the flames, but you can't control much of a fire with the contents of a thermos. So we did the only thing we could do.
We hiked back to the house and had breakfast. While the tree burned.
Once the adults were awake they were informed about the tree. Uncle Chuck and my dad decided a burned out tree was a safety hazard, so they set about removing the hazard. They drove Chuck's little AC tractor (if you don't know what an AC is....) around and across the ravine, hooked a chain up to it, and planned to pull the tree over.
Well, that was the plan.
Except, when Chuck started yanking on the tree, the AC headed down the embankment to the edge of the ravine. Of course, all of us cousins were watching this from a safe distance and could hear my dad shouting, "jump Charlie, jump!" But Chuck stayed in the saddle, hit the brakes, and rode it out. Fortunately the chain was still hooked to the tree and the tractor, so it kept the AC and Chuck from going over the edge. The tractor came to a stop, Chuck shut it down, and climbed down.
My dad ran down the hill to Chuck. "Are you ok?" Chuck looked at him, fired up an unfiltered Chesterfield and said, "you know, I was a little scared".
An hour later Chuck dispatched the burned out tree with a few sticks of dynamite. You see, he didn't do anything small or in half measures.
Many years later my dad passed away. Five days later his dad, our grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, and Grandpa's the next. It was just a few days before Christmas and a very sad, hard time. Relatives and friends came from all over for the services. Of course, Uncle Chuck was there. Chuck had lost his beloved Alice a few years before, so he was alone. It had been several years since I had seen Chuck, and gave him a big bear hug when I saw him. Chuck was there, being his fatherly self. He could be loud, but he also had a low voice, a kind, heartfelt voice that could melt your heart.
After Grandpa's funeral, my brother, sisters and I were at Mom's house, and Chuck came over too. We cleared off the table and played some penny poker. It was a perfect way to relax and ease the tension of some really hard days, and no one was feeling in a holiday mood. We had been playing for awhile, and in between hands Chuck looked around the table and in that low, heartfelt voice, almost breaking, he said, "...by God it's nice to be here with you kids".
You could have heard a pin drop. For at that moment, all the sorrow and sadness of the previous week seemed to fade away a bit. For a moment, the warmth and love of a man, hard as nails on the outside but possessing a true heart of gold on the inside, melted away the winter ice and cold and warmed our hearts and souls. In that moment, our Christmas was saved by Uncle Chuck.
Chuck's been gone now for several years, as are too many of that generation of the family. But everyone in the family has a favorite Chuck story. He may be gone, but he lives on in the memories of everyone he knew. Memories that can warm us on the coldest winter nights.
Merry Christmas Uncle Chuck.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Armistice Day
Several years ago I went to a Giants game with my buddy Eric and his friend Norris (The Reverand). A generous amount of beer was consumed that day, and we talked about many things, and even managed to watch the game a bit. At one point I said to Norris that my brother had served in Viet Nam. His reply to that was, "Did he come home?"
No one had ever asked that before. I replied, ' yes he did'. Norris then gave me a pat on the shoulder. That's what guys do. There was a Beach Boys concert after the game, and Norris and I joined a huge conga line that went around Candlestick Park. I told you, beer was consumed that day.
My brother is 11 years older than me, so we really didn't grow up together. He joined the Air Force about a year after he graduated high school. Viet Nam was raging and his draft number was coming up I suppose, so he joined up. It wasn't long before he was shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay for a 1 year tour of duty. I remember that Christmas, we watched the Bob Hope Christmas special on TV. Bob had stopped in Cam Rahn Bay, and we watched closely to see if we could see my brother. Well, you can guess how that turned out. A sea of young men all dressed in green. I wonder how many families watched the screen to see if they could get a glimpse of their son or brother.
The year he was in Viet Nam my parents were on edge (more than usual). I didn't really think of their well being much back then. I was about 8 years old and all I knew was my big brother was in a bad place. Every night we'd watch the news, and every Friday Walter Cronkite would inform us how many U.S. soldiers were killed in Viet Nam. It was a long year. Every time we got a letter from him, it was an event. Way before email and Skype, there was snail mail. I remember his return address was an APO in San Francisco. I wondered how the post office could get the mail from San Francisco to South Viet Nam. Never did figure that out.
As the end of his tour drew near we all became anxious and were counting down the days. In retrospect I think that as the end of my brother's tour came closer, my dad became ever more anxious. Dad was a World War II combat veteran. He saw things that no one should ever see, and he rarely talked about it. About a month before Germany surrendered, Dad's older brother, a tank driver in the 10th Armored Division of Patton's 3rd Army was killed in action near Trier, Germany. At the time, my dad was just a few hours away. There is an iconic photo of my Dad at his brother's grave at Hamm Cemetery. Just a white cross with a soldier's dog tags hanging from it. My Dad would talk of his brother at times, and he would always say, '...so close, so close..' meaning, that the war was almost over. Just a month. But a German 88 mm gun ended his brother's life in an instant. I can't help but think Dad was thinking of that as my brother's tour of duty was coming to a close.
November, 1968. My brother was on his way home. It was Veteran's Day and Dad had the day off. I was home on school holiday and Mom was working, so it was just Dad and me at home in the morning. Dad gave me strict instructions to stay inside and wait for the phone to ring. We were waiting for a call from my brother at the airport to come get him. Dad, with his usual nervous energy, was out in front of our house painting the white picket fence. Really, we had a white picket fence.
We were living in California at the time. Fall and winter in northern California is the rainy season. Along with rain there can can be fog, the low hanging 'tule fog' that can linger for days. Dad is wearing his coveralls to stay warm, and is down on one knee lathering on the white paint. At some point in the morning, I heard conversation from the front of the house. I looked through the large plate glass window in our living room to see Dad in his coveralls, paint brush in one hand, standing up and shaking my brother's hand. My brother was in his dress blue Air Force uniform. He had taken the bus from the airport and walked out of the fog to come upon Dad. Dad always referred to Veteran's Day as Armistice Day. Over the years, when I would hear Dad tell the story of my brother walking out of the fog, it was always on 'Armistice Day'.
I bet Dad thought of the day he came home in January of 1946. The war was over and he was home again. But when he stepped off that train, I wonder if he thought about the brother he left behind, who would come home 2 1/2 years later for reburial in the hometown cemetery.
When Norris asked me if my brother had come home from the war, I remembered that moment. Yes, he did come home. He walked out of the fog and surprised Dad.
When we were all in the house, Dad remarked, '...now both of my boys are home'.
Armistice Day, 1968.
No one had ever asked that before. I replied, ' yes he did'. Norris then gave me a pat on the shoulder. That's what guys do. There was a Beach Boys concert after the game, and Norris and I joined a huge conga line that went around Candlestick Park. I told you, beer was consumed that day.
My brother is 11 years older than me, so we really didn't grow up together. He joined the Air Force about a year after he graduated high school. Viet Nam was raging and his draft number was coming up I suppose, so he joined up. It wasn't long before he was shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay for a 1 year tour of duty. I remember that Christmas, we watched the Bob Hope Christmas special on TV. Bob had stopped in Cam Rahn Bay, and we watched closely to see if we could see my brother. Well, you can guess how that turned out. A sea of young men all dressed in green. I wonder how many families watched the screen to see if they could get a glimpse of their son or brother.
The year he was in Viet Nam my parents were on edge (more than usual). I didn't really think of their well being much back then. I was about 8 years old and all I knew was my big brother was in a bad place. Every night we'd watch the news, and every Friday Walter Cronkite would inform us how many U.S. soldiers were killed in Viet Nam. It was a long year. Every time we got a letter from him, it was an event. Way before email and Skype, there was snail mail. I remember his return address was an APO in San Francisco. I wondered how the post office could get the mail from San Francisco to South Viet Nam. Never did figure that out.
As the end of his tour drew near we all became anxious and were counting down the days. In retrospect I think that as the end of my brother's tour came closer, my dad became ever more anxious. Dad was a World War II combat veteran. He saw things that no one should ever see, and he rarely talked about it. About a month before Germany surrendered, Dad's older brother, a tank driver in the 10th Armored Division of Patton's 3rd Army was killed in action near Trier, Germany. At the time, my dad was just a few hours away. There is an iconic photo of my Dad at his brother's grave at Hamm Cemetery. Just a white cross with a soldier's dog tags hanging from it. My Dad would talk of his brother at times, and he would always say, '...so close, so close..' meaning, that the war was almost over. Just a month. But a German 88 mm gun ended his brother's life in an instant. I can't help but think Dad was thinking of that as my brother's tour of duty was coming to a close.
November, 1968. My brother was on his way home. It was Veteran's Day and Dad had the day off. I was home on school holiday and Mom was working, so it was just Dad and me at home in the morning. Dad gave me strict instructions to stay inside and wait for the phone to ring. We were waiting for a call from my brother at the airport to come get him. Dad, with his usual nervous energy, was out in front of our house painting the white picket fence. Really, we had a white picket fence.
We were living in California at the time. Fall and winter in northern California is the rainy season. Along with rain there can can be fog, the low hanging 'tule fog' that can linger for days. Dad is wearing his coveralls to stay warm, and is down on one knee lathering on the white paint. At some point in the morning, I heard conversation from the front of the house. I looked through the large plate glass window in our living room to see Dad in his coveralls, paint brush in one hand, standing up and shaking my brother's hand. My brother was in his dress blue Air Force uniform. He had taken the bus from the airport and walked out of the fog to come upon Dad. Dad always referred to Veteran's Day as Armistice Day. Over the years, when I would hear Dad tell the story of my brother walking out of the fog, it was always on 'Armistice Day'.
I bet Dad thought of the day he came home in January of 1946. The war was over and he was home again. But when he stepped off that train, I wonder if he thought about the brother he left behind, who would come home 2 1/2 years later for reburial in the hometown cemetery.
When Norris asked me if my brother had come home from the war, I remembered that moment. Yes, he did come home. He walked out of the fog and surprised Dad.
When we were all in the house, Dad remarked, '...now both of my boys are home'.
Armistice Day, 1968.
Monday, August 17, 2015
fathers and sons
I have just returned home from a trip to Washington state, I helped my youngest son move there to attend graduate school. He's 22 years old and on his own, totally on his own, for the first time. All summer long I had been dreading the morning I said goodbye and left him there to his life and drove away. I knew I would tear up and get that knotted feeling in my stomach. I had given much thought to what I would say to him before I left, even practiced it in the car over the two and a half day trip. He was still sleeping as I woke up in his apartment, showered, packed my bags and loaded the car. All ready, I woke him up and said it was time for me to go. After a few minutes he came out of his room, and I got ready to impart my fatherly advice. When that moment came, I hugged him tightly, said goodbye, then pushed away slightly to speak. I could not find the words. Instead, I just held his furry face, looked at my little boy and smiled. I hugged him again, told him I loved him, and then made my way to the door.
I think I had to wipe my eyes every few minutes for the first couple hundred miles.
When I was a kid, we would make a yearly trek to Minnesota from California to visit my father's parents and many other relatives. We made this trip for several years. One year, as we were departing my grandparent's house, my grandfather, in his late 70s, broke down and cried as we were leaving. This was upsetting us as we had never seen him cry before. My father was particularly upset, and after we left the house and were in the car, he started to cry as well. Through his tears he said he never saw his dad cry before. We drove away, and as we did my grandmother, blind for many years, stood at the door and waved to us, not seeing us but knowing she would be seen.
I did not fully comprehend what this meant until I was an adult myself. I was saying goodbye to my parents, and as my dad started to hug me, he started to weep. He didn't say anything, he probably could not find the words. Like my father before me, I was moved and started to cry as well.
Someday, perhaps my sons will have sons of their own. And if they do, there will come a day when they need to say goodbye to their sons. When that day comes, I hope they find it hard to say whatever it is they wanted to say, and all they can do is grab their son's faces and smile through the tears.
After all, that's how it worked for Tyler, who was the second son of Kerry, who was the second son of Arnold, who was the second son of Alfred, who was the second son of Peder.
I think I had to wipe my eyes every few minutes for the first couple hundred miles.
When I was a kid, we would make a yearly trek to Minnesota from California to visit my father's parents and many other relatives. We made this trip for several years. One year, as we were departing my grandparent's house, my grandfather, in his late 70s, broke down and cried as we were leaving. This was upsetting us as we had never seen him cry before. My father was particularly upset, and after we left the house and were in the car, he started to cry as well. Through his tears he said he never saw his dad cry before. We drove away, and as we did my grandmother, blind for many years, stood at the door and waved to us, not seeing us but knowing she would be seen.
I did not fully comprehend what this meant until I was an adult myself. I was saying goodbye to my parents, and as my dad started to hug me, he started to weep. He didn't say anything, he probably could not find the words. Like my father before me, I was moved and started to cry as well.
Someday, perhaps my sons will have sons of their own. And if they do, there will come a day when they need to say goodbye to their sons. When that day comes, I hope they find it hard to say whatever it is they wanted to say, and all they can do is grab their son's faces and smile through the tears.
After all, that's how it worked for Tyler, who was the second son of Kerry, who was the second son of Arnold, who was the second son of Alfred, who was the second son of Peder.
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