Thursday, May 31, 2012

Remembering Uncle Skeet

*

His real name was Gregory. We called him "Uncle Skeet." The origin of this moniker and, well, most of the details of his life are sketchy at best and mostly unknown to me. He wasn't even in direct relation with the rest of us, but in my family, that seemed to matter less or not at all.  In fact, extracting any details about my family's history is and has always been an act of futility. Many of those with first hand knowledge of these events have long been passed or have rewritten such memories for themselves in a way that is conducive to more palatable remembering.

The onset of the Memorial Day weekend prompted me on this trail of remembering. I am fairly certain he served in one of the world wars, probably the latter.  I just remember him being a permanent fixture in the family homestead, cared for by the matriarch, my grandmother. Her life is one chock full of strays and sordid tales all her own.  She is one fascinating lady and I mourn not being able to spend time in her presence as I once did. But, that is another story for another time.

My memories of Uncle Skeet primarily consist of him occupying a certain chair in a certain corner in front of a certain ceiling-height plastic plant. I spent the majority of my summer days at my granny's working the gardens and their abundant provisions, feeding the chickens and experiencing various other sorts of small farm life details. Uncle Skeet was always there, in his always place resting from what I can only imagine was a long and tiring life. We always greeted him with awe and respect as children are brought up to do. He wasn't one much for words, especially when he was behind an oxygen mask for the latter days of his life's journey. He gave us cough drops as if they were candy and we took them gratefully, realizing even then, a gift from someone with few monetary resources was a great treasure.  I secretly thought of his being there was like having a living, breathing Abraham Lincoln in our lives.

He was there, in his chair, for Christmases, Easters, and every gathering that dotted the early years of my childhood. There was always a new robe or pair of slippers or some sort of comfort offering for him on these special days. I hope he felt the belonging we felt with him there. I cannot imagine my childhood without him.

In whispers and shushings throughout my young years, I ascertained a few colorful details about this talis-man. I heard he had shot a man, perhaps in self defense, perhaps not, and had served time in prison. He was a veteran and a chance few away from the always place encounters with this man occurred when he spent time in the VA hospital in Biloxi, Mississippi. These trips were enigmatic for me because the trip to the place of suffering was punctuated by the promise of a Gulf Coast seafood meal while in these foreign climes. I was a wee knee-high lad during the end of his life, so the remembering is merely a series of events, puncturing the dark murky sky of the past like ominous constellations.

Then, he was gone. Empty chair, no oxygen tank, no more mentholated candies for us kids. No more trips to the hospital or nursing home. Just a trip to the local funeral home, church and graveyard. And waiting. Waiting for the VA to send his hard-earned painted gold and black marker. If I remember correctly, I think there was something amiss with the first and another period of waiting for them to make it right again.

Although my memories are anemic and paltry, they are fond rememberings of a robust and true picaresque character.

 Uncle Skeet has long been gone for many years, but he will never be forgotten.


*the picture at the top is not an actual picture of my Uncle Skeet, but one I found while perusing B&W photos online and the visage of the man jolted my memories of the scruffy, time-worn face and attending eyes of the true Uncle Skeet.


2 comments:

  1. Very nice, Matt. The picture, by the way, first reminded me of Whitman (whose birthday is today), but it actually looks more like an age-enhanced Thoreau. Not that any of that has anything to do with what you wrote, of course.

    Rendering what one remembers from one's childhood as one actually thought about things then is very hard--as we get older, our understanding of things becomes more sophisticated, and the temptation to render them through the filter of that knowledge is not just strong but impossible to avoid.

    And all this reminds me of Big Fish, which I recommend to you if you haven't seen it. It's set in Alabama, so that's something in its favor.

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  2. Sweet. I like it that you so value your older "family". So life enriching.

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