In Memory of Uncle Larry
We moved from South Knoxville to Karns in April 1990. Daddy had been gone four months by then, but the pain from his passing still stung like a fresh wound. Karns was a full thirty minutes away from where we’d lived – forty if Mom took her time – but it might as well have been Mars. Back then, Karns was mostly farmland, full of twisty back roads and the fewest streetlights I’d ever seen.
Mama’s new job as a lunchlady meant that she had to be at work early to prepare food for the students. Sissy and I were allowed to finish our school year in South Knoxville, even though it started hours later than Mom’s shift.
Each morning, we’d drive across town in the dark to Mammaw’s house, where Sissy and I would wait until it was time for school. Mammaw’s house was a mix of Grand Central Station and the Red Cross. Relatives were always coming or going, and those of us in need were invited to stay until things got better.
Early weekdays were the quietest. Uncle Larry would be the sole adult around, getting ready for work himself and preparing breakfast for my cousin, Spencer. I loved my Uncle Larry. He could be kind of scary, though. Although he did the best Pee Wee Herman impression in the family and was an excellent drummer, he was our grouchiest relative and the most likely to scold the kids collectively, when it was really just a few rambunctious boy cousins causing the trouble.
Uncle Larry seemed to enjoy the quiet early mornings, and I’d try my best to match his demeanor. He wouldn’t say much. He’d measure out extra water to make oatmeal for his two nieces, so we’d be included in his and Spencer’s meal. I didn’t like oatmeal, but I tried to like it, because I wanted to show my appreciation for helping us.
I’d learned from experience that Uncle Larry wasn’t the best at giving or receiving affection. In fact, I was afraid he viewed my innate sensitivity as a weakness. Learning to breathe upside-down underwater would've been easier than trying to toughen myself up in the way that I thought he wanted, yet I still knew that he cared. Often, he’d ask if we'd done our homework or had everything that we needed for school. Along with breakfast and the gift of a peaceful start to the day, this was his way of telling us that he loved us.
More than thirty-five years has passed since Uncle Larry made me breakfast. I still remember it like it was yesterday. As we get older, we realize that the happiest seasons were only made possible because others helped bridge the gaps during the difficult ones, don’t we?
I’m glad to say that Uncle Larry and I learned to respect each other’s differences over the years. He mellowed, and so did I. Life, even at its best, is an excruciating series of losses, a realization of the fragility and preciousness of existence, and for many of us, the hope that there is something extraordinary waiting for us on the other side of all this.
I’m no longer timid about telling people that I love them. During the last several years, when I’d call to check in, I would tell Uncle Larry at the end of the call that I loved him, and to my delight, he began to tell me the same. Another gift.
I will always be grateful for the good he did, and I will meet him with joy one day in the place where our loved ones wait for us all.
May he rest in the sweetest peace.
