Passage

Uncle Fred, the older of my mother's two brothers, passed away this morning in his sleep, apparently peacefully.  A quiet, sedate man, he preferred the side of the room to the center, and never appeared comfortable as the object of attention.  He was relatively young, still in his mid-60s.  Computers and telecommunications had been his career, one, as I understand it, that he enjoyed, and in which he had much success before retiring early to enjoy time with his wife, my Aunt Marie, and their son, James, while indulging his passion for fishing and muscle cars.  I imagine that the long hours of quiet contemplation so characteristic of fishing must have appealed to him.    As a child he suffered a severe bout of rheumatic fever which, in those days was a more serious ailment than it is now.  The illness damaged his heart, and while that never prevented him from living a full life I imagine that it contributed to his untimely demise.

I confess that I didn't get to know Uncle Fred as well as I should have, although I know that as his first niece or nephew he held a fondness for me.  Families are odd creatures, and all-too-often those who have known us before we knew them are the ones we neglect as we move out and on through our lives.  So I, and my siblings, and my mother for that matter, didn't see as much of Uncle Fred as we did his brother and his family.  It seemed normal at the time, but now represents opportunities forever lost.  I spent most of my time with him in the passenger seat of one of his half-dozen or so Hondas as he transported me from my parent's home in central Jersey to my Grandparents' farm in south Jersey.  He was an important supporting actor in the fondest and happiest memories of my childhood (or life for that matter), as he brought me to them.  During the fall he would bring vegetables and eggs up from the farm, still smelling of the soil, the house, and joy.  I remember this all quite well.

However, it is memories of his voice that have been with me all afternoon.  Uncle Fred's voice combined an odd, but pleasant, metallic note, with a velvet softness.  It seemed to mix an ethnic New York/North Jersey timbre with a Piney accent.  And that sound has always been the "note" that for me was connected to him in my mental Rolodex.  For others in my life their calling card is a particular event, or an image, but for a few, very few, that mental marker is aural, and for Uncle Fred it was his voice.  And now, that exists only in my memory.

Death, to be simple, is the culmination of life.  But for me, aside from the recent passing of the mother of one of my best friends, death has called for the individuals in my life at a generation's remove.  Uncle Fred is the first taken from the generation just before me, and that causes pause and reflection.

I imagine that you are visiting with Grandma and Grandpa right now, and sharing a story in your slow, distinctive voice.  I hope to hear it again someday.  Goodbye Uncle Fred, and godspeed.  I hear that the trout are biting.