Remembering my Uncle Ray

I just arrived home from my Uncle Ray’s funeral. It was a nice service; the reverend said all the right things, familiar faces of seldom seen relations provided some comfort for the grieving; the skies were blameless and blue.

During his eulogy, the minister made note of the ways in which my uncle’s life had touched the lives of those around him, of the “seeds” he had planted during his 80 years on this earth. At one point the reverend asked if anyone in the congregation would like to comment aloud, to recall some contribution my uncle had made in his or her life.

A few folks did; a neighbor, a young woman, one of my uncle’s coworkers from his days at Steelcase. I sat there in silence, wishing I had the courage to stand up in front of such a large gathering and tell everyone just how much my Uncle Ray meant to me, how big a part he played in making me, for better or worse, the man I am today.

But I just sat there, afraid if I spoke up I’d end up breaking down and looking like a big, fat crybaby in front of all those people. Were I braver, this is what I would have said:

My Uncle Ray was my first hero. He was a strapping man, tall, handsome as Elvis with a singing voice to match. He played guitar with a Johnny Cash-like authority.

I can remember the first time I heard him play and sing, in my parents’ kitchen. I was seven, maybe eight at the time and had never heard real, live music before. I was hooked from the first C chord; all I wanted was to be like Uncle Ray.

Being the man he was, he took me under his wing, taught me how to play E, A and B, taught me to count to four and keep passable time. It would be easy to say the “seed” he planted in me was music. But music was just the tip of a very, very large iceberg. 

All the really important lessons I learned just from being around the man, from my too-infrequent moments spent walking in his shadow. He taught me a man can be strong as an oak and gentle as the beating of a swallow’s wing; in fact, that’s the only way a man can ever truly be strong.

He taught me that while life isn’t always fair, a good man does what he can to make it as fair as it can be. My uncle showed me how to be a father, a husband, a man.

His love for his wife, my Aunt Myrtle, for his children, Dawn, Arnold and Ray, and for his God was a rock, unassailable, immutable as the earth itself. I have never known a man more comfortable in his own skin than was my Uncle Ray.

Too often in my own life I have fallen short of the example he set, but because of him, even with all my flaws, I have done my best. I will never be the man he was; hell, I don’t know anyone who could be. But I’m better, far better than I might have been, just for having known him.

The Scriptures tell us there is no perfect man, that we all fall far short of grace. I suppose that’s true. I know my uncle would say it is.

But, for my money, at least, my Uncle Ray came pretty close.

That’s what I would have said, if I’d had the guts to stand up in front of that crowd.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com / (616) 548-8273

Paying homage to Angela’s ashes

I rarely write about things I haven’t lived through myself. It’s too easy to get the facts wrong when relating the experiences of others, and when I get facts wrong, I like it to be on purpose.

But every so often I’ll hear a story so good I just have to share it. Like the one I received yesterday in an email from my nephew, Justin.

Justin’s a good kid and an honest one. I yelled at him once when he was making a fuss at a movie theater, but that was over 25 years ago, when he was six or seven, and I’m sure he’s forgiven me for that by now. So I think I can trust in the veracity of his tale.

I’m changing the names and a few locations, to – as Jack Webb might say – protect the innocent.

Everyone was sad when Grandma Angela died two years ago. She had been a great mother, grandmother and friend to many. It was generally agreed upon that she would be missed. The funeral was held, family mourned, people moved on.

Angela’s ashes were left in the care of her eldest daughter, Nadine. Nadine knew Angela’s wishes were that her ashes be scattered around the family’s lakefront property near Marquette in the Upper Peninsula, but as it was late October and the property over eight hours north, Nadine figured she would take care of that detail when the weather warmed.

The months went by; winter turned to spring, spring to summer, then autumn, then winter again. Meanwhile, Angela’s ashes maintained their place on the mantle over the fireplace.

When summer finally rolled around again, the family decided it was time to honor grandma’s wishes. A trip to the property up north was planned and everyone got in on the act. Uncles, cousins, sons and daughters; everyone wanted to be a part of Angela’s final farewell.

Someone came up with the idea of a memorial garden. Angela’s ashes would be tilled into the fertile soil, flowers planted, some sort of engraving installed. It would be a fitting testament to a woman who had touched so many lives.

The excitement grew as trip day neared. This would not be a solemn occasion only, but a chance for Angela’s friends and family to gather together and enjoy one another’s company; to raise a toast to kinsfolk, lineage, and the tenacity of familial blood. It would be a reunion, vacation and memorial all rolled into one.

Trip day came and the clan gathered at Nadine’s house. Everyone in attendance brought gardening equipment and a careful inventory was taken; spades, rakes, hoes? Check, check, check. Flower seeds? Check. Watering cans, fertilizer, nutrient-rich topsoil? Check, check and check.

The caravan moving north consisted of two mini-vans, a jeep, two sedans and a rusted pickup loaded down with gardening supplies.

Lakeside, family members dug, hoed and raked, breaking only once, around noon, for a family picnic. The tilling then continued into the afternoon, until, near dusk, the time finally came to lay Angela’s ashes to rest.

It was at this point that Nadine noticed one family member had not made the trip as planned.

Angela.

Grandma was still sitting on the mantle back home.

Maybe next summer.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273