2008 Woodie Awards
My dear Uncle Fred
Ken Deutsch
Issue date: 3/24/08 Section: Forum
I think about my dear Uncle Fred. Well, actually, he's not my uncle; he is my former high school journalism teacher and mentor. During the 1960s when he was in his prime, Uncle Fred was quirky, literate and occasionally encouraging to me and my amateurish attempts at writing. He would chide me when he knew I could do better, which made his infrequent words of praise that much more treasured.
This man was also a bit subversive in his not-so-covert attempts to circumvent the plodding and unimaginative academic administration with which he was forced to contend. All done with a wink, mind you. I learned many lessons from him, most of which were not in any textbook.
Uncle Fred is now in his 80s and long retired. The tragic part is that his mind is fading. Worse than that, he is all too aware of what is happening to him. In our conversations, he reaches for simple words and often fails to grasp them. I struggle to refrain from finishing his sentences for him. Uncle Fred was a student of languages. For years he traveled extensively and in each country, he would try to get to know the people by visiting the pubs and local markets. His gentle manner won him friends around the world.
Years ago, he sent me a number of marvelously written letters that were full of the natural elegance and humor that suffused his life. Elaborately written in ornate calligraphy and sometimes using old English spellings, his letters required a second or third reading before I could enjoy all the nuances. When I told him recently that I had saved them all, he suggested that if I held onto them long enough, they could probably be sold to the public for $4.95 with the purchase of two cans of tunafish at Kroger. We used to exchange e-mail, but that is now out of the question since his computer died. He never did trust it, and it finally betrayed him, an act he took personally.
So I mail him occasional letters when I can, and we talk on the phone when he is able. Sometimes he has a good day, and we share a laugh. More often, it is not a good day, and he becomes frustrated. His old friend, the English language, is now his enemy. Books just confuse him because by the bottom of a page, he cannot remember what happened at the top. It is just too hard for him to follow. Periodicals and novels, remnants of his former life, continue to clutter his condo, mocking him. When he was a younger man, he loved to write stories that were filled with mischief, sharp wit and frequent allusions to obscure authors and historical events. Uncle Fred has a master's degree in history and saw the pageantry of human events as a great drama, full of colorful characters. He would regale me with little-known facts about such diverse entities as African elephants, the Sun King, Millard Fillmore and Dostoyevsky. Uncle Fred loved to talk about ideas.
Now he is reduced to calling and asking me to look up a phone number of someone he used to know, the same number he asked me to look up last week. He can't even listen to classical music because something about his record player "changed" and he can't figure it out. Since he lives in another state, I can't go over to his house to help. I asked him what he did to fill his time and he answered, "I'm not sure." Plagued by insomnia and a long-held dislike of television, he rattles around his house like a ghost.
My dear Uncle Fred, will there come a day when you no longer know who I am? Will there come a day when you no longer know who you are?
This man was also a bit subversive in his not-so-covert attempts to circumvent the plodding and unimaginative academic administration with which he was forced to contend. All done with a wink, mind you. I learned many lessons from him, most of which were not in any textbook.
Uncle Fred is now in his 80s and long retired. The tragic part is that his mind is fading. Worse than that, he is all too aware of what is happening to him. In our conversations, he reaches for simple words and often fails to grasp them. I struggle to refrain from finishing his sentences for him. Uncle Fred was a student of languages. For years he traveled extensively and in each country, he would try to get to know the people by visiting the pubs and local markets. His gentle manner won him friends around the world.
Years ago, he sent me a number of marvelously written letters that were full of the natural elegance and humor that suffused his life. Elaborately written in ornate calligraphy and sometimes using old English spellings, his letters required a second or third reading before I could enjoy all the nuances. When I told him recently that I had saved them all, he suggested that if I held onto them long enough, they could probably be sold to the public for $4.95 with the purchase of two cans of tunafish at Kroger. We used to exchange e-mail, but that is now out of the question since his computer died. He never did trust it, and it finally betrayed him, an act he took personally.
So I mail him occasional letters when I can, and we talk on the phone when he is able. Sometimes he has a good day, and we share a laugh. More often, it is not a good day, and he becomes frustrated. His old friend, the English language, is now his enemy. Books just confuse him because by the bottom of a page, he cannot remember what happened at the top. It is just too hard for him to follow. Periodicals and novels, remnants of his former life, continue to clutter his condo, mocking him. When he was a younger man, he loved to write stories that were filled with mischief, sharp wit and frequent allusions to obscure authors and historical events. Uncle Fred has a master's degree in history and saw the pageantry of human events as a great drama, full of colorful characters. He would regale me with little-known facts about such diverse entities as African elephants, the Sun King, Millard Fillmore and Dostoyevsky. Uncle Fred loved to talk about ideas.
Now he is reduced to calling and asking me to look up a phone number of someone he used to know, the same number he asked me to look up last week. He can't even listen to classical music because something about his record player "changed" and he can't figure it out. Since he lives in another state, I can't go over to his house to help. I asked him what he did to fill his time and he answered, "I'm not sure." Plagued by insomnia and a long-held dislike of television, he rattles around his house like a ghost.
My dear Uncle Fred, will there come a day when you no longer know who I am? Will there come a day when you no longer know who you are?
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