Uncle Joe

When you lose a parent, it's always too soon, regardless of their age, whether they completed their bucket list, or never got around to writing it.  When they're gone, the deceased parent's siblings become infinitely important.  Aunt Martha said, "She (Linda) had all my memories." Similarly, Mom's brothers and sisters were links to a person gone for now: they share our memories of Mom.  

Eventually, you get past that first stage of grief where you cling to aunts and uncles because of what they meant to you during that most difficult time, and begin to remember the reasons why you loved them on their own.  My aunts and uncles gave me many reasons.  These are only a few.

Everyone should have an Uncle Joe.  Mine is from Mom’s side, the elder of her two older brothers.  He was born on Christmas day of 1936, which his sisters remember was always a sore point for him as he wasn’t sure if he was getting a present for his birthday or for Christmas, but since he only got one, he was always a gift short.

Marjory and Byron (Joe) Nevills, 1937

Stuck in the middle of the Nevills brood, with two older sisters, a younger brother, and three younger sisters, Joe excelled at baseball until an illness during his freshman year of high school sent him to the hospital in Durant, Okla., for several weeks.  Grandma feared it was polio, and at that time there was no vaccination.  It turned out to be meningitis, and he recovered, but did not play baseball again.

Clockwise from top: Joe, Tom, Linda, cousin Joy, Uncle Bob

Joe earned a bachelors in math, and a masters in administration, and went on to teach, later accepting the position as principal in a school in Eagletown, Okla., from which he retired.  Somewhere in there he persuaded one Betty Pennington, a gentle and smiling nurse from Arkansas, to marry him; and he became the father of two sons, my cousins, Wayne and Larry, who are legendary in the annals of brotherly displays of affection, such as the time one hit the other over the head with a shovel.  Betty tells that story better than I ever could.

Joe gave Mom away at her wedding.

Biloxi, Miss., 1970

But to me, when I was four, Uncle Joe was just a terrifyingly tall man who tossed my sister and me dangerously high in the air and earned Sally’s righteous indignation for dubbing her “Stinky,” never mind the fact of the matter. 

By the time I was eight, he had attained the rank of being a “turrible” influence in my mind: he dipped tobacco and watched Benny Hill and enjoyed it.  I remember creeping along the back of Grandma’s easy chair and peeking around the edge to ascertain what caused such hilarity in an adult.   For kids whose mom wouldn’t allow them to watch Fantasy Island, just because of the title, it was instantly clear that Benny Hill was the penultimate in titillating entertainment.  I was hooked, and thereafter snuck down as often as I could to catch some part of the show.  And I’m pretty sure I wasn’t alone.  It seems there was usually a cousin or brother or sister with me and we’d try to crowd behind the easy chairs without being seen or heard, a near impossible feat, if you have ever had the good luck to be an eight-year old watching Benny Hill.

Sometime that summer vacation, in a tone half-admiring, half-gleeful, Mom related one of my favorite stories of Uncle Joe.  He was driving one day, wearing new dentures that were unfortunately rubbing his gums raw.  The boys were in the back seat expressing their fond opinions of each other, and finally fed up, Joe whipped around to holler at them, in the process spewing the new dentures and blood out on the boys.  Needless to say, the boys were somewhat subdued for the remainder of the ride.

So you see why I was a little in awe of Uncle Joe.  

I went to college in Oklahoma City for the same reason Mom did: I wanted to get away from home, but not too far away.  In Oklahoma City, I was far from Seattle, but close enough to Grandma’s to do laundry when I needed to, and to visit family, if they were around. 

By then, their boys were out of the home, and though they were both still working, I saw Betty and Joe often.  They took turns checking in on Grandma in Shawnee, Okla., and Betty’s mother in Siloam Springs, Ark., driving into town to take them to doctor’s appointments and to church, to grocery shop, just to visit, or attend to some business-associated meeting.  They were always smiling, always delighted to see everybody.    

Joe and Betty gave me my first car at the end of my freshman year of college: a 1979 Ford Futura, a two-door coupe with white exterior and light blue interior.  It had a V-8 engine, cruise control, and was as big as a river barge.  I was in heaven. 

But then came the time I agreed to drive my Grandma on a trip, and Grandma wanted to bring her dog.   Princess was a good, sweet, loyal poodle, completely devoted to Grandma.  She was also (in my opinion then) dirty, only selectively housebroken, and – the supreme flaw in my mind -- didn’t obey anybody.  I could just imagine Princess jumping all over the seats in the car, smearing her nose across the windows, and quite likely relieving herself on the floorboards, on our road trip.  It was too much to ask.  Grandma would have to do without her dog for one weekend.  I was stubborn, and (I felt) perfectly justified. 

Joe was there at Grandma’s that weekend.  There was no argument, no reminder of who had given me the car.  Joe said just one thing.

“Martha, (he didn’t say “Ruth,” but it was implied), she thinks you walk on water.”  That was all.

It is never pleasant to realize that whatever it is you’ve built yourself up to be in your own mind, you really aren’t all that.  You might work hard, study harder, visit your relatives, go to church, mind your p’s and q’s, yet it’s mostly show, and mostly because it’s no skin off your nose to do it.  But the first time you’re inconvenienced, or asked to do something in kindness you don’t want to do,  you fail the test.  It’s worse when the one who points it out is someone whose opinion really matters to you.

It was years before I could recall that conversation with Joe without a flush of shame.  If I’d been younger, I’d have resented him for calling me out on it.  Funny thing about relatives: you can’t divorce them.  They’re always there, being brought up by other relatives in conversation; sitting across the Thanksgiving Turkey from you; inseparable from your memories of belly-aching laughter, of crowding into warm, fragrant booths at Hamburger King after services on Sundays, of the breathless sense of joy and safety, as they toss you dangerously in the air -- and catch you as you fall.  

Clearly, someone was in the right in this situation and even I had the sense to know it wasn't me.  I'll be honest: I can't remember if we took that road trip or not.  It seems we did.  And Grandma didn't seem any the wiser.  She treated me as if she thought I walked on water.  

Joe and Betsy, 2009

Uncle Joe is retired now, as is Betty.  They live by Lake Eufaula in Oklahoma, where they garden and fish together, and threaten to teach my kids how to waterski, if we’d only come visit for longer than a weekend in the summer.  They’re busy, too, visiting their boys’ families who live out of state, or entertaining them at The Green House.  They stay current on Facebook, where Joe laments most Sundays that their preacher is still against sin.  When I’ve gotten sidetracked, and don’t send an update of all the genius things our children do, or what animals have died, Joe sends me an e-mail or note that simply says, “It’s time.”

On one of their visits to us, Joe suggested we name our next donkey foal after him, so we did.  Uncle Joe, the Mammoth Stock donkey, was the sweetest-natured, prettiest jenny you ever saw.  Maybe we should have named her Betty.  

Everyone should have an (human) Uncle Joe.  I hope my kids do.  I hope it's someone who is present in their good memories, and just plain present in their lives.  I hope they find someone who cares about them enough to pay them the painful compliment of expecting more and better of them, than they do of themselves; someone who has the kindness to let them know when they've fallen short; and of loving them, either way.  If they're lucky, it might even be my Mom's brother.

L-R: Aunt Nancy, Uncle Joe, Martha, Betsy, Aunt Betty,

At the Green House on Lake Eufaula, 2007