My Uncle's Shoes

We Came to Live Out Loud

                                                        Tom Froehlich

In the words of Emile Zola, “If you ask me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.”  These words will always remind me of my Uncle Bud.  Yet to say he is merely my uncle is not only an inaccuracy, but also an injustice.  You see, he is the person who taught me to live out loud.  To him, it didn’t matter if you were five years old or seventy-five, what mattered was if you laughed until you cried and if you saw the joy and humor in simple things.   One of the smartest guys I know, he would often laugh and say, “Hell, no one’s going to accuse me of my humor being sophisticated. I don’t give a shit, as long as it’s funny!”  And he didn’t.  Give a shit that is. 

When we were kids we would torment him until he would remove himself from the adults and chase us through the house, pinning our shoulders to the floor with his grown up knees giving us "shoulder rubs" or rubbing his big knuckles into our scalps giving us "peanuts".  Now days this may be considered child abuse, but we came back for more each and every time.   He taught us songs such as "Sam, Sam the Lavatory Man", and "In the Shade of the Old Model T", much to my mothers dismay, scolding him saying, "Now Bud, stop it, you're awful", yet she would laugh right along with us. 

Several years after I told my family I was gay I finally asked my uncle how he felt about it.  “He asked if I wanted the truth.  I said, “Hell yes, if I wanted a load of bull shit I wouldn’t have asked.”

His eyes held mine as he said, “You know, at first all I did was feel sorry for your parents, thinking how devastated I would have been if it was one of my kids.  But then I started thinking about it and I realized I never really knew any gay people and then realized what an idiot I was for thinking that.  Hell, I had no idea you were gay!  So I realized what I thought of gays all along must be wrong.  What it comes down to Tom, is you’re still one of the funniest fuckers I know and I don’t really give a shit who you are sleeping with.  Just spare me the details!” he said with a wink.  “I love you and am proud you are my nephew.” 

We never needed to talk about it again because I knew he spoke his truth.  He had little time for bullshit. He is my Uncle and he came into this world to live out loud.

When I listened to the message on my voice mail I didn’t think much of it, other than it was far shorter than the monologue my mother typically leaves, not really grasping the concept that voice mail is not meant for a dissertation but to leave a few quick words.  The thing is, my mom always has so many important and apparently timely things to share that she must report them immediately if not sooner.  I love her for that.  Very much the same as her not being able to wait to present Christmas gifts early as she had them shopped, wrapped and tied in a bow since before labor day.  These gifts were also on a list so she would know which was a small “filler” gift as opposed to one of the “biggies”. She also had a list for all meat kept in the freezer. Each time she closed the freezer doors having retrieved a package wrapped in white butcher paper, she would open the adjacent kitchen cabinet and cross the item off the list attached to the inside of the door.  In the very same way she kept track of her very important and timely things to share. These things may often be read directly from one of her many lists she continually updated to keep her and everyone else’s life in order.  But instead she said, “Honey, it’s mom. Call me as soon as you get this message.”   No list was necessary.

When I called she didn’t even say hello.  She merely gasped between pending tears, “: Your uncle was taken on the flight tor life to the hospital. He’s had an aneurism.  The doctors said the surgery is very risky and he may die on the operating table, but if they don’t operate he will die for sure.”

In disbelief I asked, “You mean they are going to cut open his brain?”

She answered, “Yes”.

A torrent of sobs overcame me as I gasped, “Mom, I don’t know what to do.”  I live 2500 miles away in California.

“Honey, there is nothing you can do but pray”, she said. “ I will call when I have more news.”  Now I dread the sound of the phone ringing.  I turn off the ringer so just the flashing light will alert me to an incoming call.  It just seemed a gentler way to prepare for news. 

My uncle is my mom’s brother. Yet to say he is merely her brother is not only an inaccuracy, but an injustice. They were the best of friends, making each other laugh until they cried and yes, even at times till my mother may or may not have had an accident, which merely made the two of them laugh that much harder.  He would tell his off color jokes and she would feign lack of understanding, yet calling him vulgar and a pig unable to wipe the knowing grin off of her face.  He would retort, “Well you simple shit, even the village idiot would understand that one!”, him wearing a similar grin unable to mask the love and joy of spending time with his sister.  Trust me, the words “simple shit” have never, or ever will be said with such uncompromised joy and love.

It hadn’t always been just the two of them, but forty years ago their sister took her own life.  It was in the days before they had the diagnoses or the medical treatment for bi-polar disorder.  After suffering that great loss they were determined that we all knew the importance of family.  And they did.  As our grandmother always said, “There isn’t an ill wind that doesn’t blow someone some good.” Not that we all wouldn’t wish that is was different, but you take what life throws your way and deal with it as best you can, my mom would say.

My uncle survived the surgery and my mom and I were in contact at least daily giving me progress reports.  The surgery had gone well, but he was still unconscious.  My mom called me a week after the surgery and said, “It doesn’t look good, honey,” through shameless tears.  My heart broke for her.  We had lost my dad three years ago and my uncle was her rock.  Being childless, I now know what it must feel like to want to take away the pain from someone you love and there is nothing you can do.  You feel helpless as if they are falling into an open abyss and you don’t even reach out your arms to help them because you know they are going to a place in their heart you can never understand.  I just tell her I love her and hang up the phone.

I called her the next morning to ask how my uncle was doing.  She said, “I’m in the hospital honey.”

I responded, “Yes, I know, how is he doing?”

She said, “No, you don’t understand, I’m in the hospital, they think I had a heart attack.  The ambulance came early this morning.  I was going to drive myself, but then I figure if I croaked behind the wheel I may take out an innocent by-stander and that just didn’t seem right.  But I told them I didn’t want any of those damn lights or sirens.  I didn’t need all of the neighbors wondering what in the hell was going on.”   I wondered if it had occurred to her that those lights and sirens might buy the EMTs extra time they may need to ensure her well-being.  I mentioned this and she informed me she doesn’t need everyone knowing her business.  This from a woman who tells me, unsolicited mind you, every time she has an unusual bowel movement and has an ironing board cover with a twenty-something stud muffin air-brushed seductively across it, naked except for a towel covering his loins.  A couple sweeps across the towel with a hot iron and said stud is wearing nothing but a smile.  She distributes these to other octogenarian women in the neighborhood.  This is the woman who wants to maintain some privacy. 

She cheerfully informs me that they think it may have been an anxiety attack and they’ll know after a few tests. 

To say she is merely my mom is not only an inaccuracy, but also an injustice, for we are the best of friends.  When my dad past away she said, “Honey, you’re going to have to teach me how to be single.  I haven’t been single for over fifty years and you seem to do it pretty well.  Oh! And don’t worry about me getting married again, cause at my age all they want is a nurse or a purse and some old fart isn’t getting my money and I sure as hell am not going to be his nurse.”

Yea, that’s my mom. She has taught me to love and to laugh.  We have laughed until we have both had accidents and laughed even harder.  She has taught me to be strong and laugh in the face of adversity.  In her words, “Honey, we had better laugh, cause we look like shit when we cry.” She has taught me to live out loud.

I understand the circle of life, I’ve seen “The Lion King” for Christ sake, so you spare me your platitudes.  All I know is I love these people with all my heart and I will miss them.  They have loved me and shaped me and helped me become the person I am today and if you ask us what we came into this world to do, we will tell you, “We came to live out loud”.