AUGUST 21, 2020 – Yesterday I wrote about “Lady Gaga,” confusing her birthday (August 14), with my uncle’s, which, in fact, was yesterday. Having overshadowed the memory of “his day” with memories of “Gaga,” I must now write about Uncle Bruce—“UB”—the Inimitable. Originally, he was our Santa Claus (see 12/24-25/19 posts). Later, he was my ski coach, directing countless ski trips up and down Vermont.
Eventually, he went “rogue.”
But “rogue” is relative. In his mind, I’d gone rogue. In his old age we had a falling out. Several years passed with no communication between us. I was upset with him and he with me—for having disturbed his affairs when they were long past his ability to manage. He himself was beyond my ability to manage. Irascible, eccentric, and militantly defiant, he viewed me as “the enemy.”
When my anger and frustration subsided, I decided to make amends. During one of my periodic trips to New York, I peeled away for a day and journeyed over to his home in New Jersey. I approached the back door of the dream house my great-grandparents had built in 1910 and that UB had turned into his personal fortress. I rang the inoperative doorbell, knocked on the outer door, pounded on the inner door. Finally, I heard the sound of a Navy icebreaker breaking through frozen seas. It was UB parting his way through the waist-deep refuse and rubble that filled the passageway to the door. I heard the unlatching of multiple locks. The door then cracked open. Through the gap I saw a narrow slice of his face. “Uh-oh,” he murmured . . . and closed the door on his nephew gone “rogue.” The locks clicked shut.
If it wasn’t my Nixon-meets-Mao moment, neither was I discouraged. Eventually, we made peace, although—or perhaps because—his barriers were high and my expectations low.
By a series of setbacks and declines, he eventually landed in “assisted living,” where he held court as only a Beautiful Mind knows how.
From his outlandish ways, many of them hurtful and destructive, I learned patience and forgiveness. But more important, I discovered acceptance and perspective and how humor is like the sun—it’s always shining—either in your face or where you have to find it.
I buried my anger years before UB died at close to 95. I focused more on the bright things he’d brought to our lives—his flower gardens, boundless curiosity, interest in politics, unique view of the world, subconscious parodies of Leonardo Da Vinci, and in my case, his love of downhill skiing. If he was a troubled soul, he managed on his own terms to thrive, and on the people he encountered he made an abiding impression. The sin of which he hadn’t a trace was the sin of being boring.
August will remain a month when I remember—with amusement and gratitude—the colorful gift UB’s inimitable personality.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
