A rchive Date
[ 11-06-2000 ]
Category
[ Science ]
sub-Categoy
[ Anthropology ]
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[Uncles taught about life, manhood, charity
By LARRY CORNIES - London Free Press
June 10, 2000
Amid news this week of deadly highway crashes and life-saving medical breakthroughs, great but harmless solar storms and tiny but deadly bacteria, came word that my last paternal uncle had died.
Uncle John, 89, was the family patriarch. Though the oldest of eight siblings, he'd seen two of his brothers and three of his sisters pass away ahead of him. His wife, Katherine, died several years ago.
I can't think of my now-deceased uncles without recalling some of the phrases from Welsh author Dylan Thomas's magical children's poem, A Child's Christmas in Wales:
There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles . . . . Some few large men sat in the front parlours, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly . . . . For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept . . . . I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among the festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates . . . .
During my childhood, the settings varied only slightly from Thomas's description - sometimes it was a large living room with plush chairs and sofas, other times it was a circular gathering of lawn chairs around a barbecue pit - but the uncles always cut larger-than-life images. They resembled my dad, but were scarier, probably because they were older and their booming voices, flecked with a slight accent, had a certain gruffness that managed at once to convey both affection and intimidation.
All my uncles were farmers, born in Czarist Russia. Having fled the Ukraine with their parents during the anarchy that blew across the steppes in the wake of the Russian Revolution, they became proud Canadians. They measured their good fortune at having found a land of peace and plenty by the sweat that rolled from their brows. They were firm believers in the value of post-secondary education - something they never had an opportunity to experience. They were generous donors of both time and money to a variety of causes.
Each uncle, however, wore a distinct personality. Uncle John seemed to me to be the tough-guy disciplinarian; the John Wayne of the group. In his barn, barbershop-style haircutting equipment hung alongside scythes, mower blades and knives. "Wanna haircut?" Uh, no thanks. His home remedy for almost every illness: Go to your room and don't come out until you're better.
He loved his family but he also loved cars. When I visited him at a retirement home less than three weeks ago, he pointed proudly at photos of his late wife, his children and grandchildren, all of them fixed like a wreath around a central photo: his last car, a red Buick. Losing his wife was a serious blow, he'd say, but losing his mobility - and giving up his driver's licence - were nearly as bad. He made no secret of his desire not to die a lingering death but also had a reputation around the retirement home, especially among nurses, as a sweet-talking joker.
Uncle Jake, however, was the king of the practical joke. For him, laughing wasn't one of life's frilly options, it was as essential as air. A visit with him usually turned into a battle of wits; a kind of undeclared war that probably began when I was only a few years old. He'd squirt me with milk directly from his cow's udder during the evening milking.
It escalated into full combat one day when my dad and I paid a visit. Uncle Jake used an electric fence to keep his livestock from wandering. As I jumped out of Dad's pickup, Uncle Jake extended his hand. "Larry, how're ya doin?' " he asked. I took his hand and promptly jumped back. Uncle Jake's other hand had been holding a wire on the electrified fence. Great guffaws. Fun with electricity.
Uncle Dave seemed the adventurous one of the uncles. Not content simply to live out life on his farm, he indulged hobbies such as boating, snowmobiling and golfing. He took other jobs - driving school buses and grading tomatoes at H. J. Heinz - to supplement the farm income and simply break the routine. Closest to my dad in age, he seemed the most accessible, the most empathetic. He was probably also the most impeccable dresser of the trio.
My father was the youngest; the only one born in Canada. By age 15, both his father and mother had died. The three other brothers became a kind of surrogate fatherhood triumverate. Now, my dad and a sister, Sally, are all that remain of a family of 10.
It seems as if children today are lucky if they have a live-in father - or father figure of some kind - from which they can learn about maleness and all the baggage that entails. I consider myself fortunate not only to have had that but to have had three other male role models - four variations on a genetic theme - from which to learn about life, manhood, family and charity. And they point to the fact that extended family members, too, can play vital roles in the development of children.
Larry Cornies is Forum editor for The London Free Press. His column appears Saturdays. He can be e-mailed atlcornies@lfpress.com]
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