I wanted to learn from him. He was not a simple man by any means, but the leap in intelligence between sobriety and toxicity was remarkable. My first sip of alcohol, my first word of Spanish, the first dish I ever cooked alone--all under his inebriated supervision. My father would be irate beyond all comprehension when I'd come home and share my newfound knowledge, telling me that I shouldn't waste my time, I should be careful, I shouldn't put stock on his words; however, at 4:30 p.m., I'd still pretend to go walking on the vast acreage behind our country home. I never stopped visiting his brother, I just stopped bringing anything home. I'd take the beaten path that steered west of his house and the powers that be would become satiated as I grew smaller on the horizon, but I'd slide and dive through thickets and briars into my own ill-trodden railroad to his home, where he'd teach me about the things my dad was afraid of.
My father's brother doubled over in pain at 5:30 p.m. in his country home on evening. His mind went stark white, as did his weather-beaten face. His limbs grew leaves as he reached for the telephone, but we avoided the call on the caller ID, as did his sisters. After all, who wants a lay pastor saving your soul from TV dinners with his sick textbook banter? We said grace over supper and never thought of it again until we saw the red lights spill across our living room floor.
Three little words and three little numbers got him where he needed to be as his liver failed and his body rebelled against southern comfort of all sorts. Now they say he's getting better, he's not an alcoholic anymore. My father's brother is growing stronger with every day. He's looking younger, they say, and his calcified bones have snapped apart and he can walk in a straight line again. He's out past sunset, driving sober and taking in sights and teaching pretty girls things they didn't know about the Mississippi Delta. They say he's doing better than he ever has, or at least better than they've ever seen him.
I don't know who to believe. They never visited his sickbed or listened to his symptoms. They never opened the books that he wrote every night--the journals of Vietnam, of the Civil War, of World Wars I & II. They saw his illness and steered clear, letting his body break down his resolve to nip from the frosted bottle in the freezer. I haven't seen him since he's recovered because I'm not sure I'd call it a recovery.
I can't help but think of him any time I throw back a shot or a glass of wine. Does he miss me messing up his kitchen with failed attempts at culinary masterpieces? Does he still watch the weather channel from 6:30 until 7:15? Did he dream up the constellations that I reconstructed with glowing plastic stars on my bedroom ceiling?
Is being sober boring after you've held planets between your palms?
Does he miss knowing everything that everyone in the world has ever known?
Labels: alcohol, alcoholism, almost memories
7 Comments:
From your description of your uncle, I can honestly say that I don't think I've ever met anybody even remotely like him. He sounds like a special person, considering I can usually pin a lot of people to a certain type/stereotype.
When I first read the title of this post, I thought it might be an entry about sexual abuse. Uncles are kind of famous for that. So until I got to the third paragraph, I was waiting for something uneasy to creep in.
On a more personal note, have you ever taken any sort of writing classes? Your writing style is so captivating to me. Maybe some of it has to do with me knowing the scenery you use first-hand, since we both live in Mississippi. Still, I don't think that alone can account for how much it moves me. I actually look forward to reading your posts on my lunch breaks each day. It's crazy to get so excited about someone writing some words on the internet, especially considering you don't have that many posts up. I don't know. I think it'd be great if you wrote a book of short stories or something similar. You should look into that.
This got really long.
He is very unique. I'm glad that I know him because I feel that he's guided the person I've become. He's not a creeper uncle or anything, of which I am glad.
I only ever took one writing class, and that was fairly recently. He told me that I was too verbose and superfluous and that no one could ever or would ever enjoy reading the things I create. Not going to lie, he did break me from writing for a while. This is my first attempt at writing on a daily basis since then, so it is rusty, most likely.
I am not consistent enough for short stories. I get bored so easily. The piece about Jenny is the longest piece I've ever written.
Thanks so much for your encouragement, though. I won't lie--I enjoy reading things from you as often as possible. I'm glad we can have that exchange of sincere interest.
I've had so many friends tell me horror stories dealing with their college writing classes. They all used to keep blogs just like me, and then they stopped. Eventually, I asked some of them what had happened, and they told me how discouraging their professors had been towards their writing. I've never taken any writing classes, and after hearing so many negative stories about them, I'm glad I haven't.
Please, don't give up writing! I'm glad you got back into it. I think your stuff is wonderful. You could make a book of tiny pieces, like the stuff you put on here. You could call them "short short-stories." Anyway, that's just an idea I think you should include in your future goals.
My advice to you--never take a writing class. Your style is distinct and very very nice. I'd hate to see anyone taint it. Mine has been convoluted and altered and I'm only now recovering it.
I just don't know if I'd have the confidence. I could collab or something, but criticism terrifies me. I couldn't handle knowing I was the sole heiress of all the hate mail. Drama, much? I'm crazy maybe a little.
Would you be interested in doing a book collaboration with me? It wouldn't be anytime soon. At the earliest, it'd probably sometime around a year from now before I got around to actually putting anything together. But yeah, I've always wanted to make a book out of some of my stuff. It'd feel like an accomplishment. I think doing a collaboration would be a lot easier. We wouldn't have to worry about trying to fill a bunch of pages, and we could use just what I thought was our best stuff. I'm sure if we combined both of our best stuff we'd have enough to make a book with. You're one of the only people I read that I could see myself doing this with. I either don't like other peoples' stuff enough or they've already got their own books. Anyways, I know I'm jumping the gun, but yeah, I think it'd be fun. Once we got it all together and could decide what it all meant when combined/came up with a title, I have several artsy friends who could do cover art for us. Ha, I feel so dumb. I'm getting so far ahead of myself.
"...could use just what *we* thought was our best stuff." Oops, that typo made me sound like a control freak!
I forgot about the internet for a moment, I hope I didn't come across as disinterested. Things have been going a little less than swimmingly lately.
But in other, more relevant news, I'd love to contribute if you feel like my pieces would have home there. I appreciate that you're that interested in what I'm doing here. It started out as "Ha, I told you I could write, despite you" sort of venting, but I'm getting increasingly interested in keeping it alive for my own sake.
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