Sam

The news of my father’s possible impending death came with one primary feeling: relief.  For the last 20 years, every time I even thought of my family, I would take a deep breath filled with the freedom of being an entire country away.  Now, I felt truly free, as if a huge weight had disappeared.  I began to think of who in the family I would actually contact on the very slim chance I decided to reach out.  I knew immediately: my Uncle Sam.

I tentatively searched his name online.  The only item I could find was a two line obituary stating the day he died and his age when he died. Perhaps searching for him wasn’t such a great idea, as learning of his death so soon after learning the news about my father was a bit too much death all at once, even for me.

One weekend when I was twelve, during the time period right after my mother died, I was staying at my grandparents' house on the coast.   They were at work, and I was hanging around the house until my grandmother came home.  A knock sounded at the door.  I paused, thinking maybe I should just not answer at all, but I went ahead and asked who it was. “Sam,” came the response.  I grinned, and opened the door. 

“Hi,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me.”
He seemed happy to see me.

In that second, I decided to play a joke on him, and answered with as serious a face as I could pull off, “No.”

What?” he asked as he came in the house. “You don’t remember me? You used to …”

“I was kidding,” I said.  “Of course I remember you.”  I wouldn’t have let him in if I hadn’t remembered him, but, well, adults.

He stopped right there in the hallway. “You do?”
I took a good look at him, and knew that this was my Uncle Sam: still skinny, with reddish hair and a beard.

He seemed to be waiting for something, so I decided I had to prove it.  “We went to your place several times,” I said. I couldn’t think how to tell him that I remembered driving through the tunnels to get there and back mostly, that the specific details of a picture of his place, of staying there overnight, of a warm, comfy quilt type blanket, were a little hazy.

“Jeanie always said you were smart, but I didn’t realize…” he started.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He said.

“How old are you now?” he asked.

“12”

“You’re 12 now?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

There then ensued a discussion of how I was going to fix myself lunch during which I assured him that I could figure out how to work a microwave.

and he seemed to just be standing there waiting for more, so I said, “I remember that you were my favorite uncle.”

“I was?” he said, and started grinning.

“Well, you and Aunt Jenny were my favorite aunt and uncle together,” but seeing him frown, I added with a shrug, “but, well.”

He looked surprised.  Of course I knew about their divorce.  I wanted to know the details, but knew better to ask.

“You could stay and wait for Grandma.” I said.

“I could?”

“Yeah.  It’s not like you’re some random friend of Grandma or Grandpa.  You’re a relative, and I know you. I think you could stay and wait.”  I really wanted him to, b/c I had all sorts of questions about who he was, and his divorce, etc., and I missed him. I tried not to look too eager, though, to hopefully minimize the rejection, just in case he didn't.

He stood there for a minute, evidently thinking, and then said, “No, I just came to pick up something, and I have stuff I really need to do.”

I tried not to show that I was disappointed and responded, “OK.”

“Yeah,” he said, and turned around to head toward the door. “Make sure you lock the door.”

“I will,” said, mentally rolling my eyes.

He closed the door behind him, got into his truck, and drove off to do busy adult things. I locked the door, and went back into the house to hang out with my grandparents' dachshund.

That was the last time I saw Uncle Sam.