Uncle Jim

Ever have those random, seemingly meaningless memories that just stick with you forever? I have a few. A particular sunny day I spent lying around in my parents front yard playing with Thundercats action figures. The first day I rented Legend of Zelda. Sleepovers at a friend's house spent building blanket / box forts. That time when I put my arms through the hand holes of a Kroger bag and jumped off my front porch like it was a parachute...

I'll open this with one such memory.

It may not have been the first time I heard it... But the first time I REMEMBER hearing the song "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult, I was riding in a vehicle with my Uncle Jim. I was probably about 12. We were pulling his boat behind, and heading for a lake in North Carolina where he lived. My parents were following behind in their vehicle. We were spending a holiday weekend at his home. Windows were down. Music was loud. And even then I couldn't help thinking "Man, the guitar solo really ruins the mood of this song..."

Jim was my father's older (and only) brother of 6 siblings. He was an eternal bachelor who never married and never had any kids of his own. When I was very young he moved away to North Carolina but he came home often, and I like to think we were fairly close. He always treated me as if I were much older than I was in our discussions, and I recall that he always came up with the most interesting Christmas gifts. things that you wouldn't imagine a young child enjoying, but I however, always found great joy in them. One particular year he brought me a gold pocket watch... the windup kind. I still have it.

Uncle Jim passed away when I was 17. A victim of cancer after a battle of several years with many ups and downs. He was only a little over 10 years older than I am today.

When he was diagnosed, I was still too naive I suppose, to really understand yet what that meant, or what kind of a battle it really was. I remember my dad sat me down to have a serious talk about it. I asked if it was bad, and at the time it was not. He was expected to make a grand recovery. Which he did several times.

Jim's reaction to the news was to be utterly and completely unaffected. He went to his treatments, took care of his health, and did what he was supposed to do. "Cancer? Pftt... No big deal." was his general demeanor. I remember he even bought a new car. Some sporty little thing. And throughout the years and the troubles he went through, when I was around at least, he never showed any sign of cracking. And before you knew it, his cancer was gone, and everything was fantastic.

I wont go into the lengthy details of his battle... because that is not the point of this.

The last time I saw my Uncle Jim alive, he was in a hospital bed in Charleston. His health had deteriorated to the point that he felt he should move back to West Virginia, and he had been hospitalized for a particularly rough patch. I am ashamed, and eternally regretful to admit that I did not visit him as much as I should have. The sad truth is that it disturbed me to do so. As I grew older, the word "Cancer" became a terror to me. A scourge of nightmares where someone tells me I am dying from the inside out. The very thought of it unnerved me. And it terrified me to see my uncle as he had become.

This is something I will never forgive myself for.

But that last time that I saw him, we had a nice talk, as we always did. He never acted like a dying man. Just uncle Jim, hanging out with his nephew. I remember that he said something inspirational to me. I'm sad to say that even though I can still remember the sound of his voice (I always wondered if something like that fades over the years after you lose someone) I unfortunately cannot remember exactly how he put it. But the gist of it was "Don't ever let anything keep you from enjoying your life."

He did not say this to me as if he were a dying man making a request. There was no hand clasping, and no dramatic music. No tears. No burst of emotion. He said it to me as if I were saying to you "Hey, you might wanna tie your shoe before you walk up those stairs." I said that I would not.

He also gave me his guitar pick. (My uncle was also an amateur guitarist like myself).

The significance of the pick is something that honestly, I did not consider until quite a bit later. Why would a dying man in a hospital bed have a guitar pick? In my mind, it was as if he randomly produced it from the depths of his pocket as I so often do. But I realize now, that he had it because he meant to give it to me.

The pick was a bit thin (I typically play a medium because I have a terrible habit of strumming way too heavy handed) and so instead of using it (and immediately destroying it by doing so...), I decided to just keep it, as I keep so many other things.

About a week after this meeting, my father called me at my grandparents, and informed me that he had passed on. I had purchased a Tom Petty album that very day called "Echo" which contains a song called "Room at the Top".

It's funny how music finds a way to be potent and relevant at a particular moment in time.

As for my uncle's request to appreciate life as it is, and not for what you think it should be, it took several years for that lesson to sink in. Everyone has their ups and downs I suppose. Even Uncle Jim. But it did eventually settle in my mind that no matter what stupid little dramas are going on in life, most of it really isn't worth getting all that upset about. And so I do not. I'm not sure that I've ever been "depressed" so to speak. But at this point in my life I cant say I would know or remember what it would feel like. Nor do I have any interest in ever knowing. I wouldn't exactly say that I'm elated when I open my eyes in the morning. There are always things that could be better. But at least I have that chance to do something about it, when so many do not.

Anyway, I'm not a believer in any particular religion or faith, and while the afterlife is a pretty notion, I cant say that I'm exactly convinced. But just because I do not believe, I suppose that doesn't mean I cant hope that I am wrong. And so in honor of my father's brother, who never let anything get him down, I dedicate this meager little Internet post to my Uncle Jim wherever he may be, and whatever he may be doing. Hopefully it involves something cool.

Like ninjas.

Ninjas are cool.

Vengeance, Thy Name is Penney.

Since I'm suffering from a complete lack of originality today, I thought I would take inspiration from Weapon Mod's recent post "Dad" and share a tale of parental antics of my own.

This tale begins a long time ago in my early teens or perhaps even before, I cant recall exactly. This story is true, and none of the names have been changed to protect the innocent (or guilty).

When I was a young child I was fascinated with the show MacGyver. I just really liked the idea that someone would be so resourceful, and smart, yet centered and pacifist enough that the bastard never just picked up a gun and shot somebody. Instead, he would rig an elaborate trap using twine, duct tape, three screw drivers, a heavy toolbox and some toothpaste, which would, through a series of pulleys and levers drop the heavy toolbox on the bad guy's head when he came through a door.

The man also had an incredible mullet.

I joined the boy scouts so I could become helpful and resourceful, and I was always looking for an opportunity to rig up something ridiculous to save the day (They didn't really come up very often...).

Anyway, for any of you who watched the show, you will know of course that MacGyver's most important tool was his trusty Swiss Army Knife. It had everything he needed to save the damsel in distress, take out all the bad guys, and fix his old car to ride off into the sunset afterward. And so began my obsession with pocket knives.

I collected them for several years. My grandfather purchased a leather bound case for my birthday one year which I deposited them in. My favorite were the knives with function... The Swiss Army knives (of which I still always carry), and the Swiss Army knock-offs that the Boy Scouts made as well. I was never particularly interested in the single blade, locking variety because well... They weren't very resourceful were they? MacGyver would never carry such a thing.

But I ended up with a few of them anyway.

One day, while visiting my uncle, he showed me a knife that he had acquired somehow, and wanted to know if I would like to have it. This knife was a single blade locking type, but it was huge, at least 5 inches when folded and double that with the blade extended. I'm not really sure what you would use a knife like that for other than murdering something. But it was a knife, and I liked them, so he gave it to me. I placed it into my collection and gave it little further thought.

My Uncle's Gift

We will now fast forward several years. I am a teenager in high school.

One fall evening my friend David was visiting. My parents had gone out and we were just sitting downstairs hanging out.

Suddenly there were headlights outside. My parents had returned.

Why this idea suddenly came to me I cannot tell you to this day. But the truth is, when I saw those headlights, the first thing that came to mind was "Lets hide! It'll be hilarious!". David agreed.

And so we quickly scrambled for whatever hiding place we might manage.

Into the spare bedroom we went. I hid behind an exercise machine of some sort, and I directed David to hide in the closet. "She never uses that closet." I said.

So my parents enter and we sit quietly, proud of our stealth.

Immediately my mother enters the room.

I plainly see that she has intentions of hanging her coat in the closet which I directed David to hide in.

I could have warned her... I could have broken cover and spared him the violence that was coming. But somehow it didn't seem right. I mean, it's every man for himself on these types of stealth missions and my cover was not yet blown. So I watched it unfold.

She opened the door, and there was a large shadowy man standing in her closet. She yelled, and punched him furiously while he screamed "Penney, its me! its meeeee!"

I laughed and laughed. My mother swore vengeance.

"Whatever, Mom..."

Months later during that winter, I was home alone at night. My Dad was at work, and my mother had gone out Christmas shopping. I was upstairs in my room playing some Playstation game or another, probably Final Fantasy 7, given the time period.

I should probably describe my bedroom for the sake of clarity. At my parents house, my bedroom was essentially an attic. There were two separate rooms, a larger one with the staircase leading downstairs, and a smaller one where my bed, computer, TV, etc. were. I basically had the entire upstairs to myself, and I was situated in the smaller room playing my games.

The door to my room always had a peculiar property where when someone opened the outside door, a draft would sort of pull the door in and you could hear it bang slightly in the door frame. Nothing loud or anything, just a subtle "click" and you'd know "Hey, someone is home."

So I'm sitting upstairs playing my game and I hear the pop of my door.

"Mom's home." I think to myself, and continue my gaming.

Several minutes later I decided it was time for a drink. So I head downstairs.

Everything is as it was left, living room and kitchen lights are on, and I could not hear my mother anywhere.

"Mom?" I say. There is no answer.

I decide that the cat must have leaned up against my door or something to cause it to make that noise, and that my mother is in fact not home yet. I grab my drink, return to my room, and shut the door behind me.

Several minutes later, I hear movement downstairs, and decide that my mother has in fact, finally arrived. I walk downstairs to see if she needs help carrying anything... only to find that again... nobody is there. The front door is shut and locked, and there is nobody outside.

Curious, but not yet freaked out, I decided that I'm hearing things and once again return to my room, shutting the door behind me.

Back at my gaming station a few minutes later, suddenly I hear my door slowly swing open.

"Mom?" I say.

No answer.

I walked to my staircase and peered down. There is nothing out of the ordinary. I walked downstairs and again examined the kitchen / living room area for signs of entry. Nothing.

"I must not have pulled the door all the way closed" I decide. I firmly close the door, and return to my room... Wary.

Several minutes pass, and then I hear my door open once again. Blatantly this time. No slow creaking noise, and no convincing myself that it opened by itself.

"Mom...?"

Nothing.

I walked to my staircase to peer downstairs. The door was wide open. All the lights are off.

I am going to die.

My mind flicked through every horror movie ever, and yet I still did not learn from the mistakes of the ill fated teenagers who were about to die in horrible ways. There was a phone available to me upstairs, but I didn't even consider the possibility of calling 911.

No. What I did instead, was look around my room for a weapon.

And there it was. My uncle's gift from many years before. 10 inches of sharpened, lock bladed murder. My fear would not hold me back. I would not bow to this Michael Myers wannabe stalking my home. I would kill him and rid the world of his evil.

And so I locked the blade into "death dealing" position, and cautiously inched down my stairway. Every step was a creaking nightmare as I got closer and closer to the obvious bottleneck of the stairway where the killer would either strike me from the living room on the left, or the kitchen on the right. I hoped for the kitchen because I would have a clear shot to defend myself from there, the door would be in my way to the left.

As I reached the bottom my body tensed for attack but nothing came, so I stepped out into the hallway and then I hear it...

"BOO!!!" says my mother from the kitchen... as if she were the ghost from a Scooby Doo cartoon instead of someone who just reenacted every slasher movie ever.

"MOM!!! I COULD HAVE KILLED YOU!!!"

She laughs and laughs.

And now every time I see that knife that my uncle gave me so many years ago... I think "There's the knife I almost stabbed my own mother with..."

And the moral of the story is... Don't fuck with my mother. She is scary, and evil.