Uncle Al
Fittingly, Uncle Al died on a Friday.
He retired in the mid-90s, and built a small house on his property (my Uncle Al would just do shit like “build houses” — and I don’t mean he would come up with an idea and “hire someone out” — he built the fuckin house) and he used this particular post-retirement building exclusively for parties he threw every Friday night until COVID hit.
Rain, shine, sub-zero temps, tornados, my Uncle Al had his Friday night party.
When I spoke to my mom this morning, I asked her to tell Uncle Al “one last thing” from me. Part of it had to do with Friday night parties in the building.
I could have called mom back a thousand times for one more “one last thing” to pass along to Al, and all I’d ever mean, over and over again, is this: I love you, man. I will love you always.
My Uncle Al was the wildest human being I have ever known. I mean that in all senses of the word: fascinatingly, recklessly, beautifully wild.
My Uncle Al was a gifted storyteller and one funny fucker. I say this with great affection and mad respect, for Uncle Al’s most used word was, in fact, “fuck.” His employment of this word was sometimes innovative, sometimes baffling, and always pitch perfect for the occasion.
The night his daughter, Angie, and I helped him cut down a burning tree in the middle of the night, I watched him do what I’d seen him do so many times when confronted with a problem: he swore a blue streak — “Fuck. Now I’m gonna have to fuckin’ deal with this shit. Fuck.” — and then he would sit for a moment, accepting what had to be done to confront the issue, and resign himself with an exasperated “Ah, fuck.”
He never stopped reminding me, even well into my forties, to “watch for deer” and “just make sure you don’t end up in the fuckin’ ditch” and if your dumb ass found a deer in your car or yourself in the “fuckin’ ditch,” Uncle Al would be the first to say “Ah, fuck” and then come to your rescue.
The last time we spoke, I told him he should get a medical cannabis card “now that you have cancer, like me” and he said “Ah fuck. I could score hospital grade quality drugs on the street cheaper than weed at those fuckin’ rip off stores. ” And at the end of our conversation about drugs, cancer, and “fuckin bullshit,” we said “I love you.”
Uncle Al lives in the woods. I mean he did and still does. He always will. Last night, when I couldn’t stop thinking about him, the way he sat leaning on his elbows, the way he laughed like a mischievous boy sometimes, the way he told a story peppered full of “fucks” and “fuckers” and lighter sparks as he lit his cigarettes, I thought of him in his kitchen in the woods. Or on his deck in the woods. Or in his little party building in the woods.
My Uncle Al lived in the woods, and I spent many mornings and afternoons drinking coffee, watching the wildlife with Uncle Al. Deer, mostly and especially. And deer have always held special significance for me because of the time I have spent on my uncle’s property doing exactly this: watching the deer.
This morning, my mother told me the wild turkeys had showed up on the property. I was so happy to hear this — Uncle Al loved the wild turkeys. He loved the raccoons that lived under his deck and ate the dog food. He loved the deer. He was a wild person. He was of the wilderness, of the wild world. Now he is the wilderness, the whole wild world.
Animals and babies liked Uncle Al, almost always on sight.
My Uncle Al was a punk, a rebel, a beloved misfit. He could make an outstanding meatloaf. He could throw one hell of a party. He could give a good hug. He refused to fit anyone’s mold, and I don’t think I ever saw him in any pants other than blue jeans, even when he was sleeping. (This is a weird detail that just occurred to me as I was throwing this together.)
Ah, fuck, Uncle Al.
What can I say? I do not remember a time before I loved him. And there is no “after.” I love him in this moment as much as I loved him before all this fuckin’ shit hit the fuckin’ fan and fucked everything up.
Yeah.
Because of general life fuckery, I could not be there in this last week of my uncle’s life. He knew I loved him. We talked about this. We were good. Between us, I don’t think anything more needed to be said.
The beautiful thing is that between me and my Uncle Al, there is no baggage, no unresolved shit. I wish I had more time with him. There were more conversations I did want to have, more questions I wanted to ask, more stories I wanted to hear “one more time” like the one about the terrible (yet hi-larious) prank he pulled on the Math teacher, on grandma, on my dad, my aunts.
Ah, fuck.
Reader, I really don’t want this one right now.
So in honor of my wild, brilliant, beautiful Uncle Al, I would like to conclude with this profanity laden tirade: Are you fucking serious, right now?
Like has there not been enough fuckin’ grief in the past twelve fuckin months?
This is fuckin’ crazy. How the fuck am I supposed to fuckin deal with this on top of all the other shit? And then these motherfuckers call me on the fuckin’ phone about this Ibrance shit on one of the most fuckin’ miserable days of my fuckin’ life. Fuck. I’m exhausted. I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I can’t deal with this shit anymore.
And then, just like my Uncle Al, I’m going to take a pause, and acknowledge that I have to “deal with this shit,” sigh and say, “Ah, fuck.”
If you drink, send one up for Uncle Al tonight.
If you toke, send one up for Uncle Al tonight.
If you pray
If you blare music
If you watch the deer
If you watch the Weather Channel
If you smoke a cigarette
If you admire the lights
If you feed a turkey
If you adopt a raccoon
If you drop f-bombs or wind up in the fuckin’ ditch
If you party like it’s Friday night
If you love your life even a little today
do this in memory of Uncle Al.
