In memory of Uncle Jack
March 11, 1917 - January 27, 2011
His name was as simple as the life he lived.
He didn’t need a lot of fanfare.
He shuffled along without a cane, eyes to the ground. When greeted, he would look up with a smile that said hello as he kept moving to the living room chair where he sat and listened. He would have shared his thoughts and would have had plenty to say if we had asked him. But we rarely ever did.
One personal effect seemed to define him: his pipe. He always had his pipe. And as kids, nothing smelled better.
His home had dust. Not the kind of dust that comes from laziness. In that regard, his home was immaculate.
It was more the dust that comes from years of living. The carpets were worn and probably chosen by his mother when he was young. They had the kind of dirt that slowly forms as one’s eyesight weakens. And yet he was ever so aware of it when you stopped to visit. He knew his hands were as tired as the carpeting. They just couldn’t clean like they used to.
There were no nick-knacks sitting around. You could count on two hands the number of pictures or pieces of artwork on display. In a mantle cupboard was a glass baby shoe. Most likely his and probably untouched for the last 90 years.
His regular sitting chair faced the television. It was a rusty orange color - worn to the frame, unkempt, and small. But it fit him nicely.
Room by room revealed a wonder of emptiness. A simple dresser and bed in each bedroom, nothing more. What others might turn into storage space, office space or closet space… he had no need for.
While he lived alone for so many years, a woman’s touch was evident in the floral wallpaper his mother selected for the dining room and master bedroom and the vanity that hadn’t moved since she was alive.
Dresser drawers were as empty as the rest of the house. Of the few things they contained, many of the items were “new” and still in their packaging but those same items were also “old”. Many of the items were gifts given to him before the invention of barcodes. They likely sat there for 25 years or more. He routinely wore his favorite pair of pants and dress shirt and had no need for what was new.
The basement held a story all its own. There was only a washing machine for laundry, no dryer had ever come into his home. And it wasn’t that he couldn’t afford one. He, like his father before him, would wash the clothes at home and lug the heavy, wet cotton and polyester fibers up the narrow basement stairs and take them to the laundromat where he would read the paper while waiting for them to dry. Even at 93 years old.
He had next to nothing but he had everything he could ever need. And he never complained. He had a shelter over his head, a1999 Ford Mercury with fewer than thirty thousand miles, food in his cupboards, and blankets to keep him warm.
There were no skeletons in his closet - nothing in his life to be ashamed of. While his home and his belongings seem to leave out a lot of details, that’s who he was. His life was uncomplicated. He didn’t ask for much. He never needed help. He was happy just to be a part of things.
As I think about it, his life was a living example of 1 Thessalonians which says, “Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business, and to work with your hands.” He didn’t need a lot of “stuff.” He lived without any drama. He was gentle and kind until the end.
Uncle Jack, you will be missed. Your quiet, gentle presence always brought a warmth and a comfort to our family. Thank you for teaching us that we don’t really need that much to be joyful and to live a full, long life. May you rejoice in heaven with the angels today.
