When I hear a eulogy, or read a remembrance, I’m often reminded of a memorial service I once attended, at which Del Close stood up and announced, “I notice no one’s talking about the coke or the hookers.”
Now, don’t worry. I’m not here to talk about coke or hookers. I just want to establish that I’m aware of the hagiography that occurs in these instances. It’s as if you’re viewing this person’s life through the gauzy lens of a Barbara Walters special. No wrinkles, no warts, just a memory, preserved in amber, of the subject’s most perfect self.
I’m also often struck by the selfishness inherent in these tributes: “He was MY best friend.” “She was MY favorite aunt.” “He meant so much to ME.” Why is someone important simply because they were important to you? By the communicative property, aren’t you really saying that you’re the important one and they’re the wind beneath your wings or something? I don’t know. My mind wanders during these things and these thoughts come unbidden through the ether.
That said:
I remember my uncle Glenn, and he was very important to me.
He had two nicknames that I remember. One was Frog, pronounced “Frawg” in our little neck of the North Carolina woods. From what I can recall the name derived from his ability to mimic a bullfrog. His other nickname was Cat-killer. I’m unsure of the provenance of that one, and never asked for fear of learning an inconvenient truth.
My uncle moved around a lot in his youth. He joined the Air Force after high school. Then moved up to my neck of the woods to Hammond, Indiana, where my aunt Geraldine was living at the time. He remembered his time in the area and Hammond’s “hootchie-cootchie bars” fondly. He became a DJ and would later regale his nephews with stories of walking through Memphis with Elvis, and hanging out with Johnny Cash and George “No Show” Jones.
It must have been the summer of 1975, the summer before I entered kindergarten. I say “must have been” because, as with most things in early childhood, events in time seem to run together. Also, I’ve been too lazy to ask. But Charlie Rich had a big hit that year with “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” was still getting significant airplay, and Loudon Wainwright III’s “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” was not an uncommon find on AM radio, so I’m placing this at 1975. Now, if you’re curious why I’m using radio airplay as a gauge of time and place, well, it should be obvious that this is the story of a road trip.
My uncle Jack lived in Mineral Wells, Texas, and we drove out there pretty much every summer while I was growing up. I remember that I was both excited that Uncle Glenn was coming along with us and sad that he was staying behind in Texas.
It was during this trip that he coined the nickname he’d call me for the rest of my life. I loved Hong Kong Phooey and would jump around acting out all the action from my favorite episodes. So, he called me Hong Kong Shooey. (“Sh” for Sean, get it?)
There in Texas he again found work on the radio, and, of course, the love of his life Louise, who had her own bar there in Mineral Wells.
Later, he’d go to work at the regional airport there in Mineral Wells, and called me one day in the 90’s to tell me that he’d beaten me to the silver screen. Yes, Chuck Norris filmed a scene from one of his television movies at the airport, and Uncle Glenn was to appear in the film opening the airplane door for Chuck. He was very excited, but went out of his way before the end of the call to encourage me to keep on acting, and that he was sure I’d “get there.” I don’t know if I ever told him how much I appreciated that.
A few years later, he was, shall we say, in his cups, and called me and told me he loved me and he was proud of me. Several times. Over and over. It was probably the best drunk dial I’ve ever received. I told my brother about it, and, sibling rivalry being what it is, he said, “Huh! Well, Uncle Glenn never told me he loved me!” I’m telling you, Tommy Smothers has nothing on my brother. At any rate, I relayed this to my father, who relayed it to Glenn, who left the following message on Lee’s machine: “Hey Lee, this is your Uncle Glenn. I just want you to know…I love ya and I’m proud of ya.” It was priceless.
In the later years, Louise took ill and he spent more and more time with her and their little Shih Tzu Chancey King as her caretaker. He worked as long as he could and even began driving for Meals on Wheels, but finally retired to care for her full-time. After she passed away, he and Chancey moved home to North Carolina. He passed many good hours reunited with his sisters and playing golf and Wii with my father and my cousin Butch and his sons.
I went to see him on my last visit home, as it turns out I saw him the night before his final trip to the hospital. My father and I went to visit him at the nursing home he was staying in and we played Wii for about an hour. I of course stood and put my whole body into it. He just sat on the edge of the bed and used a flick of the wrist to beat the pants off both of us.
When it came time to go, I hugged him goodbye. He told me he loved me and I told him I loved him.
And those were the last words we said.
I miss him, and I’m sad, but I couldn’t have asked for a better goodbye.
He was my uncle. And I love him. And I’m proud of him.
