Reflections on the Seventh Week of Fall – Uncle Jim

    Uncle Jim, the last of my dad's generation, died at age ninety-three on Monday. An empty sadness distracted me Tuesday morning while adding toppings to my breakfast oatmeal. Thoughts of how he valued people, loved his family, and smiled when he listened to whatever I had to say, swirled in my foggy mind, and I searched in vain for the walnuts in the cupboard. Thursday, recalling snippets of Uncle Jim fixing motors, riding tractors, and admiring nature, I reached for the almond milk in the fridge and picked up the misplaced, chilled walnuts.

    During the unfocused week, my mind kept settling on two Uncle Jim boat stories and a question. Was Uncle Jim really buck naked in Presque Isle Bay?

    Jim never told stories about fixing motors on navy ships in WWII, but Dad, the older brother, told the story of them rowing across Presque Isle Bay. Their boat swamped. Dad wore swim trunks, but Uncle Jim wore clothes. With much chuckling, Dad said Jim stripped and jumped into the water buck naked. They treaded water till a neighbor came along and pulled them into his boat.

    “But Dad,” I'd said. “Did Uncle Jim have to walk home naked?”

    Smiling indulgently, Dad shook his head. “The neighbor had extra clothes.”

    After Dad died, I wanted to hear Jim's version of the story to decide if Dad had just been teasing me or if Jim had really treaded water buck naked. I got my chance one Sunday afternoon when Jim sat on my front porch. I asked, “When the rowboat swamped and dumped you and Dad into the bay, were you really buck naked?”

    Uncle Jim's lips twitched. He chuckled softly, gazed into the woods, but didn't answer my question. Instead he said, “That isn't the best boat story.”

    Jim told the story of taking his grandsons Russell and Nate, aged nine and seven at the time, fishing on Canadohta Lake in a motor boat. The outboard motor stalled. When it restarted, the boat jerked, and Jim flew overboard. He surfaced. The boat whipped around in tight circles. Jim waited for the boat to come around, grabbed the side, and wondered if he'd have the strength to hang on until the gas tank emptied.

    At the funeral this week, I asked Russell and Nate, now forty and thirty-eight, about their wild boat ride with Uncle Jim.

    Nate beamed and smiled from ear to ear. “While he stood and started the motor,” Nate bent, pulled an imaginary cord, and continued, “he told me, 'Never stand and start the boat, Nate.'”

    Russell whirled his finger in tight circles. “We were terrified whirling in circles.”

    Because Jim hadn't told me the end of the story, I asked, “Did another boat come to your rescue?

    “No.” Russell grinned and shrugged. “Somehow he shut the motor off from under the boat.”

    Nate chuckled and sniffed back tears. “He was my superhero. I thought he could fix anything.” Nate paused to stifle a sob. “I've never been tempted to stand and start a motor. I learned that lesson from him.”

    Wiping my eyes while an American Legion soldier played “Taps” on his bugle, I wondered if my nieces and nephews will have learned lessons of humility, persistence, and dedication to family from me.

    I'll miss Uncle Jim.

    And I'll always wear presentable underwear when I'm in a boat.