Opaque Lucidity

Gus

My Uncle Gus died Friday morning. He was my father's youngest brother. I was at work when it happened, but my mother was kind enough to spare me the news until I got home. He had been fighting lung cancer for two or three years marked by improvements and setbacks. He died at home. He was 69.

You probably didn't know Gus, but you knew people like him. He worked at a local trucking company as a mechanic for years and became a handyman when the firm went under while he was still too young to retire. Like my dad, he never really retired; he just no longer got paid for the work he did.

When I saw him for the last time, he looked good for a man who had two heart attacks and a major battle with cancer within the past four years. He moved a little slower, but he still had that same easy way about him that I had always known. He loved to tell stories, as men of that age almost always do, but they were rarely stories centered on him or his achievements.

Gus and Betty lived around the corner from my parents when I was growing up, so they were a pretty constant part of our lives. In fact, their two sons (both more than a decade older than me) were often thought to be the brothers of my four older siblings. After Gus began working as a handyman, he seemed to have more time to do the things he enjoyed. He would ride this restored Schwinn bike over to my house and stand in the driveway talking to dad while he worked on something or washed the car. They talked politics, or about the past, or about any of a thousand things. He was very well read, as is my dad, so I never knew where the conversation was going to end up.

My dad has seven siblings and my mom one. Before now, we had only lost one: my Uncle Tony, dad's oldest brother. I cared for Tony, but he was much more distant. We only saw him on rare occasions, mainly when the entire family was together. Gus was always a presence in my life. After I started high school and mom and dad felt comfortable going out of town and leaving me alone, they would always say, "If anything happens, call Gus." This was reassuring to me because Gus was the "cool" uncle. By that, I don't mean he had an IROC-Z and wore too much gold. Where my dad could have a bad temper, Gus always seemed a lot less worried about things. Of course, I wasn't his child and I'm sure his sons would probably have something to say on the matter.

One thing that he said to me when I was little has stuck with me to this day. He and my dad were talking about the '37 flood, the most devastating flood in the history of this region. Gus couldn't remember it and dad was barely four, but they knew the stories. I remember Gus laughing about how older people always seem to refer to past decades as the good old days. He looked at me and said, "THESE are the good old days."

The time has arrived for me, the time when my uncles, aunts and even my parents will begin to pass away into whatever comes next. Statistically speaking, they will all be gone in 10-15 years. Then my generation will lead the family, but I can't imagine it being the same. We are not made of the same stuff as they, the hard parts made by struggle that we never had to endure because they wanted better things for us.

He will be buried on Monday after a short visitation at the funeral home. These days, these next few days in which I, my brothers and sisters and my cousins reflect on this man who I loved but did not spend enough time with in his later years, will be tough. Sometimes, these are most definitely not the good old days.