Uncle Charlie's Farm

My beautiful sisters Donna and Susan.

I have been blessed all of my life with two sisters who quietly and pleasantly fill in the gaps of my life. From hardship to spiritual lack to memory lapse, they have gently corrected my mistakes, set me back on my feet and even pressed a few dollars into my hand before sending me back out into the world--all of which speaks to their superior character.

Many times when I have spun my yarns I'll get a phone call or an email gently pointing out the factual errors in my recollections. "No, that was Della" or "that was five years ago" or "Colostomy?? No! He had a tracheotomy--wrong end!"

Therefore it is my distinct pleasure to offer the following recollection which, I'm sure, will generously provide those in the know with ample opportunity to engage, direct and confide.

Uncle Charlie he had a farm, he had lots of chickens.
Uncle Charlie he loved them all, they were his friends.

The girls--Becky, Susan, Colleen and Donna--used to sing that song quite often. Or rather, Grandmere, Sarlita, Carlita and Jarlita did. At one point in our youth we gave ourselves Mexican-style names although mine, perhaps, was more Spanish Colonial as I was called Don Diego. It doesn't speak well of our parents that someone felt that, since we were emulating immigrants, we belonged in the fields. That's how we came to visit Uncle Charlie's farm: we were recruited to de-tassle corn.

First, let me say what a lousy job that is and allow me to apologize to anyone I have ever unintentionally maligned for having to do any kind of agricultural work. I might add that our parents knew what they were doing when they loaded us onto that flatbed truck and sent us out into what appeared to be endless rows of feed corn. It was dirty, boring, hard work and, after we had finished, we found our wages (hot dogs, potato salad and tall, cold glasses of lemonade) to be, however sating, wholly inadequate to the task. Right away we learned that work is hard and that, because it is hard, one should be humbly grateful for and respectful of those things which were given to us through the fruits of our parents' own hard labor.

Sometimes I know for a fact that youth is wasted on the young. I will warn you, however, that a wise youth is a formidable force of nature. Think of all the things you know now--not just the factual reality of those things but the whys and wherefores as well. Now, imagine what you could have accomplished if you had possessed all of that knowledge and wisdom when you were 18.

It's only over the past ten years or so that much of what I learned 30 and even 40 years ago has started to make perfect sense. It may be because my perspective has finally shifted, thanks to time and age, to a point where it is aligned with that of my teachers. Because I now see the world from the same angle and manner in which they did I am more able to share in their viewpoint and benefit from their experience.

If that's so, then I need to remind myself to be appropriate and deliberate in my discussions with the younger generations of my family. If I truly want to help them, I need to offer advice and guidance while looking at their world through their eyes. I need to gently and lovingly offer kind assistance in much the same way as my beautiful sisters offer it to me.

Birthdays With Aunt Myrtie

Miss Myrtle Marquis, circa 1918.

Time, it has been famously said, keeps on slippin' into the future, and as it moves inexorably on to points unknown it leaves us bobbing in its wake to sink or swim with the outgoing tide. Change is a biological imperative and a key component of God's design. New generations rise to take our place and help us step down to take our last walk into the fading light. It is the most natural of phenomena, and yet I can't help begrudge a few minor points.

I appreciate the fact that my family, once so compact and easily contained, has become a large, gangly creature that romps about like an overactive but well loved chocolate Labrador. Full of exuberance and easy affection, it runs in circles that grow ever wider and far flung. I don't know half my cousins' children by face or name, and I am even a little hard pressed to identify their parents, too. It seems sometimes that I am losing touch not only with the generation that came before but the one that has come after as well. That bothers me a little.

I want to know these younger people, and I think it's a shame that most of them have not had the great privilege to grow up personally knowing the names I hold as famous: Ira, Kate, Della, Myrtle, Lyman, Lee, Perry and more. The wistful attention that I paid to the stories they told of Poly, Eileen, Hannah and Alexander years ago is what motivates me to tell stories like this one today.

Her name was Myrtle Elizabeth Marquis Jordan, although we always called her Myrtie. She was the third sister among Hannah's surviving daughters, and I still marvel at how close she, Kate and Della were. For a long time, they did not let a day go by without visiting one another in their homes, and they even worked together in the laundry at the Old People's Home.

Myrtie lived on Oak Street, too. In fact, she lived at three different addresses on Oak. She and her husband Frank, daughters Gerry and Elaine and sons Paul and Joe lived with the Huffstutlers at 153 during World War II. After the war, they lived across Raymond Street in what we came to know as "Mrs. Purdy's house." Finally, after Frank had died and her children had grown up and left home, she lived across and a few doors up the street with her friend "Aunt" Martha Huber.

Martha was no relation to us, but we called her "Aunt" just the same. She was very sweet but given to sudden lapses in comprehension that somehow always managed to devolve into spirited diatribes on the exemplary character of her parakeet, Buddy. (Truth be told, while she had the dedication necessary to own several parakeets over the years she had imagination enough for only one name: Buddy.)

Myrtie was such a frequent visitor at 153 Oak that she had her own bed there in Kate's room. When it was available, it's where I slept when visiting. If it was not, I ended up on the roll-away. One night, when the house was full to overflowing, Kate made me a bed in the bathtub. More comfortable than Myrtie's bed, which had a pillow that doubled as a sandbag (or vice versa), it became my instant favorite, and I gave Kate ample reason to regret her ingenuity for years to come. (Looking back, Kate may have been trying to safeguard my 7 year old pride during an extended bout with bladder problems and bedwetting--ingenious indeed.)

Myrtie was very sweet, always singing or whistling, eager to talk and laugh. She always shared gum--something no other adult did in my recollection--but she had a habit of sticking it under the table when she was finished with it and no one was looking. None of us ever dared to say a word about it (till now). She also wore clip-on sunglasses over her prescription glasses. It always struck me as so modern and stylish--as if she were a character out of The Great Gatsby--that it still fascinates me to this day.

At some point in her life, Myrtie had developed severe hip problems. I remember how she struggled to walk and how she lurched from room to room. It's only recently (thanks to my own hip problems) that I have realized just how much pain she must have been in--and yet she never complained. Instead, she always smiled, laughed and sang hymns ("The Old Rugged Cross" was always her favorite). She was at peace with her pain. In fact, she always seemed to have that "perfect peace" for which Kate, Della and Ira were so well known.

That's not to say that things didn't affect her. After she moved to the modern high-rise public housing apartment building on State Street, I spent the night there with my cousin (her grandson) Jordie. Space was tight in the tiny apartment, and Myrtie slept on a foldaway couch (how that must have added to her pain!). Jordie and I had the floor and we were fidgety and wound up (probably full of sugar) as 12 year old boys often are. Ten minutes of that and Aunt Myrtle laid down the law: be quiet, go to sleep OR ELSE. The next day, Myrtie was back to her old, happy self.

Myrtie and I had a special bond because we shared the same birthday. Growing up, we shared many birthday parties and cakes at Oak Street as well. She always made a point of singling me out for affection but, like Kate and Della, she also made a point of reaching out to all of my cousins. Between the three of them, they created a strong, wide web of love and affection that helped keep our growing, gangly family close and warm. Theirs was a high standard of family parenting--one to which I hope we can all continue to aspire.