Uncle Ray

“We should go to dinner first.” I said, peeking at the clock on the dash from the backseat of Dad’s sedan. He hasn’t driven it in months since he bought a used truck. Apparently we want to keep the blue car in pristine condition, which isn’t all that surprising if you knew my father.

“If we wait,” I continued, liking the sound of my own voice, “it’ll be crowded. We’ll have to wait for a table. Might have bad service. We should eat now, then go to Uncle Ray’s.”

In the absence of the Little One, my parents typically defer to me, so we picked a restaurant, had a pleasant dinner, then went back to the car to complete our trip.

I was dreading this, if it’s not obvious already. I don’t know how I feel about losing Uncle Ray – have cried over him, watched the online video of news coverage following the accident. It’s an awful thing, but it didn’t touch me in a deeply personal way for a lengthy time because we simply weren’t close. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, didn’t expect a response to the graduation announcement I sent many months ago. Knew we wouldn’t see him again anytime soon. Though his death was absolutely shocking and sad, I was more concerned on the impact it would have on Dad than myself.

I roll my eyes at my family because they’ve taken stuff. Scolded Mom about having piles of DVDs in the living room – tacky decision, that. So she put some in the office and then took a case from Uncle Ray’s that neatly displays the others in the living room. Dad, Brian, and now myself – we all have tools and parts and pieces from his garages. The man has an estate that looks to be worth upwards of $400,000, owned a veritable fleet of vehicles and bought all his clothes at Goodwill and shopped for other items at Dollar General. All that money – I keep thinking, knowing I won’t turn down what Dad plans to offer me – and he didn’t do anything with it. Travel, give it away so people could think him kind, build a bigger house than his modest 2 bedroom structure. I don’t understand, frankly.

I walked up the two steps to the porch, reaching out for Mom since her knees are bad and the ground was uneven. She and Dad preceded me into the house – a small gray building that matches the two garages Uncle Ray had built. It was much warmer in the house than it was outside, and Mom quickly turned on a fan inside the door. I commented on the high ceilings – they were pretty and as Uncle Ray had designed. Then frowned over the bare light bulb in the hall – no glass globe to soften the glow. It smelled of Uncle Ray – grease. Not unpleasant, but perceptible. The scent had seeped into his clothes and skin, his love for cars and their inner workings immediately apparent to all who met him. In addition to his superior, negative attitude, of course.

I looked around, then followed Dad down a short hallway to a bedroom.

“Is this how he left it or did you do this?” I asked Mom, not bothered by the clutter of clothing, but unnerved that it might have been left that way and remained undisturbed.

“We’ve done a little in here, but not much.” She said, waiting in the doorway as Dad and I took up most of the space around the bed and piles of clothes.

“Are those dirty? Does he have a washer?”

“Yes, and no. He had his laundry done by a service, I think.” Mom responded to my questions, looking to Dad as he nodded in confirmation.

“So those are clean?” I pulled my attention away from the full laundry basket, feeling the pull of grief begin, and looked toward a clear plastic bag full of more clothes.

“I think my sister is going to give those away.” Dad said. “I’m not sure.”

I nodded, glancing at the piles of sweaters on the bed, cringing over the t-shirt casually thrown to the floor because I do the same thing. Toss things down where I stand when I remove them, then gather them up later for laundry. It’s not ideal, but it works.

“I love that fan.” I said, grateful for the distraction. It was an old black fan – it didn’t rotate, you could easily stick your fingers through to the blades and it couldn’t have been more than 18 inches tall. It was a Westinghouse - perhaps 50 years old, and I thought it very cool.

“Take it.” Dad said, and I smiled briefly because I knew that’s why he’d brought me here – to find anything I might want – before shaking my head.

“I’d feel weird, Daddy.” I said softly. Then explained further when asked why. “I… He just left it like this. Bought this stuff so he could use it, and now he can’t anymore. It’s sad. And I don’t think he’d want me to have his fan.

“I know – I doubt he’d care that much.” I continued after a brief interruption. “But shouldn’t someone else have it? He didn’t like me much.”

It wasn’t so much that he disliked me – when he used to come over every Saturday morning, we’d exchange greetings. Our dog at the time – he called her Wolf, while Dad went with Ralph, neither was her name – adored him to distraction. He liked her a lot. As a toddler, I demanded affection of some sort – after all, everyone must love me. But I’d calmed down considerably, understood that I was an acquired taste for some and others would always pass when offered time in my presence. I simply assumed Uncle Ray would rather avoid me if possible, and made casual attempts to accommodate him.

I turned from my examination of the fan I really did want to find Dad going through a clear plastic box on the other side of the bed. He showed me a small stack of photos – told me they were right next to his bed, stored in this container.

“Brother cried when I showed him.” Dad said, and I was moved enough not to offer a verbal response as I nodded over pictures of Brother and myself as we aged from toddler to junior high. We would proudly give them to him when he visited. I stopped doing so because I was sure he threw them away. Perhaps he liked us a bit after all.

Or perhaps, in a house that was filled with stuff – from cool fans to actual garbage – he just saved everything. It’s hard to tell.

I watched Dad place the pictures back in the box, then he walked across the room to the chair, unplugged the fan and handed it to me. It was greasy, which didn’t surprise me, and dust coated it liberally.

“I’ll clean it up before I put it in the car.” I said, remembering the pristine sedan waited for us in the drive.

I wept in the second bedroom, looking at the microphone set up to record music. Uncle Ray used to sing in a band and continued to record vocals. I have cassettes – probably 50 – in a shopping bag so I can go through them at home. Figure out what we want to do with the good stuff. When I wondered where he wore ties as I peered in his closet – he had two and I’d never seen him dressed up – Dad pulled the funeral program from another uncle’s funeral service from the jacket pocket. Uncle Bill – a gentle, easier man – died when I was still in high school.

“He didn’t wear it much.” Dad said, tucking the paper with a picture of Uncle Bill back in the pocket. He left, and I smoothed the jacket sleeve, then made sure it had room to hang flat between a Ford Racing coat and an awful paisley print shirt. I glanced around at the music stuff, hoping very sincerely that he was happy here. Felt talented and useful and content. And cried while I whispered I was sorry he had to leave.

I walked to the kitchen, then out to the back deck he’d recently had repaired. It was peaceful, there on a hillside among the tops of some trees, rain moving through as it cooled the air and bathed my new fan in soft gray light. I brushed at some of the dust, commented on my need for cleaning supplies to combat the grease, then placed it gently on a plastic bag to await our departure.

I helped sort through the last of the movies – probably about 100 titles left – A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Matrix, Mona Lisa Smile. Eclectic taste, I mused, normally leads me to think that someone is complex and fascinating. As we went through the movies, leaving only a few where none of us expressed interest, it occurred to me that he could have invited nearly anyone over to watch movies. His collection was impressive, and he had a bit of everything. Then I noticed a stack of No Trespassing signs that matched the 3 I’d seen while walking to the house from the garage. He liked watching people in movies – loved it, actually – but he sure as hell didn’t want people around.

And for a man who professed disdain for religion and the people who followed it – Dad included – he has a lot of Christmas music. And a CD he burned of Christian songs. Maybe he just liked music – his collection of tapes and CDs certainly indicated that was so, but maybe he’d also made peace with God. Developed a bit of faith for himself that helped him achieve tranquility as so many of his CDs indicated he sought. Classical music over ocean sounds. Relaxing collections that promise rest. I hope he found that. But I’m not sure he was even looking.

I left with a few DVDs, CDs that I’ve just finished loading on my laptop for transfer to the iPod as an Uncle Ray playlist, and the fan that I took outside my parents’ house an hour ago to clean. It’s stuff, yes, and someone needs to do something with all that still remains. But the few pieces I selected will be used primarily to remember a man who was incredibly intelligent, reclusive, judgmental and incredibly demanding. When I think of him, I’ll likely always wonder if he regretted some decisions. The silly tiff with Dad that ended up lasting until he died. His divorce and refusal to remarry – to make a family for himself. I understand that people are different – what makes me happy doesn’t necessarily work for everyone else. And I’ll hope that he found something that worked for him.

I’m not sure whether that’s enough or not. But for now, it’s all I know.