My Uncle Dave

I received word from my family back in Idaho that my Uncle Dave (my Mother’s side) died last week. He was 89 years old. That’s quite an achievement, if your health is good. People in my family tend to live long lives. The exceptions have been my mother and father. But, there were reasons for this.

My mother was a chain smoker for many years. She was also addicted to prescription narcotics for many years. It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. Years ago, before people were crystal clear on the terrible health effects of smoking, it was the “in thing” to smoke. Even Hollywood pictures glorified smoking. This is the era that my mother grew up in. Later, as people were dying of cancer, people became more aware of what it was doing to their health. She tried for a long time to stop. She ultimately was able to, but not before the damage had been done.

The prescription pills were for “nervousness”. She was given Nembutal for her nerves, and Doriden (since outlawed because of it’s addictive nature) to make her more calm. Indeed, there were times that she looked like a zombie. And towards the end of her life, there was even talk from some in my family to sue the doctor who had been prescribing these medications all those years, knowing full well that she was addicted. That same doctor even called me at college to try to see if I was a “voice of reason”. He was scared that he would lose his license. I agreed to “call off the dogs” for him - not out of any feeling for him, but I was worried about what it would to do Mom to just be cut off from those medications. I was afraid that would kill her. She was able to eventually stop on her own.

Eventually, she died of “congestive heart failure” at the age of 65. It was ultimately the smoking that took it’s toll.

My father died at the age of 46. He too was a chain smoker. But more than anything else, his passion for farming, along with extremely long hours, killed him. The doctors warned him to stop, but he wouldn’t. One night, he died of a massive heart attack.

As for me, I tried smoking when I was seven years old. I stole a cigarette from my Mom’s purse, went out to the back year, and lit it up. I took a nice long puff on it, and I started to cough uncontrollably. I became sick, and threw up. I thought, as I was crying, that I was dying. As it turned out, it was the best thing that I ever did. To this day, if I’m in a room of smokers very long, I will start feeling nauseous, just because of that incident. So needless to say, I’ve never smoked another cigarette in my life.

My Uncle Dave was not in good shape in the last years of his life. I was told that he weighed less than 90 pounds when he died. So this past week, I’ve thought a lot about my Uncle Dave. He was a champion old-time fiddler. If you don’t know what that is, then you’ve never visited Weiser, Idaho, fiddling capital of the world. I, on the other hand, was a “violinist”. I always looked down on fiddling as a perversion of the instrument.

My family used to be quite close before my father died. After that, people drifted apart somewhat. Later, because of a lot of things, there were hard feelings that would never mend.

My last visit with my Uncle Dave was a memorable one. My brother was with me. For some reason, my brother wanted to go for a visit, and he took me along. I was in high school at the time, although I forget what grade I was in. I was having a lot of difficulty at school because of harassment. People were talking about me concerning my perceived sexual orientation. This was the period of time that I was going through hell at school. I’ve written about it on several entries.

So we arrive at my uncle’s house. He greets us outside and proceeds to tell us a joke that he heard. He was always telling jokes of one sort or another. He said, “Do you know what they are doing outside this gay bar? [laughs laughs laughs]... They are making pop sickles in the shape of cocks, and calling them ‘cock sickles’ to attract all the faggots. [laughs laughs laughs]... Then when they have them all rounded up, they can go after ’em with the bats.” [laughs laughs laughs]

I suppose he said other things after that, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what. I went numb after that. I tried to laugh, although, I don’t know what was so funny about it. My brother laughed, so I guess I just didn’t get the joke. Or perhaps, the prospect of being gay bashed with a baseball bat was just a bit too close to home for me.

That was my last memory of my Uncle Dave. I never wanted to go back. I never wished bad of him. He never knew about me being gay - at least, not at that time. I’m told now that the whole family knows. When other people in my family die that I haven’t seen in twenty-five years, will I only remember awful things that they have said like this? I still remember an aunt telling me, upon hearing about some woman being a lesbian, that she was afflicted with a “mental illness”. And that remark is also the thing that I remember about that aunt, when I think of her.

I understand that it’s bias and hatred for what they don’t understand. In some instances, it’s not even hatred. They just never take that next step and think about what they are saying. I’m guilty of that as well. I once told a Polish joke that I thought was funny. As it turned out, one of the people I was telling it too turned out to be of Polish heritage. He told me so after I told the joke, and he still laughed at it, even though I had just poked fun at his heritage. I felt awful about it afterwards, and I still regret it today. But at least, I have to give myself credit for giving it thought and reflection, and vowing not to do it again.

So I can’t really fault my Uncle Dave. I have done the same thing. And where I have had an opportunity to meet some Polish people and have found them to be fine people, I doubt that my Uncle Dave ever met a faggot that he could tolerate. There were people beating up suspected gays in Emmett, and there were a lot of rumors over the years. Most of the people being rumored about at one point or another had a problem with harassment or violence. Some left Emmett for fear of their own safety. And, when the rumors turned to me in high school, the same thing happened to me. Perhaps my Uncle Dave was among those who were the bashers of some of these people. Who knows, maybe there was some truth to that joke he told, since he used to work at a bar downtown - at least the gay bashing part.

I’ll never know, and it’s best that way.