My Uncle Russ lived in the apartment above Aunt Es. Russ lived alone. His wife died from a heart attack before I was born. He worked for the railroad until he retired.
Every night, when dinner was ready, I’d run down Essie’s hallway and bang on the radiator pipe with a spoon to let him know it was time to come down. He’d stomp his feet in reply and would join us a few minutes later.
Uncle Russ was a quiet man. After dinner, he’d go back upstairs to sit on his porch and smoke his pipe while gazing at the distant mountains. I’d often run up there to join him. I was fascinated watching him pack his pipe with cherry tobacco and then stoke it to get it lit. We’d sit on porch chairs together for hours. I’m sure we talked, although I have no memory of what we talked about.
Russ would also sit on the front porch and visit with our neighbors. He was one of the porch people who made up the character of Arlington Street.
Uncle Russ was a bit grumpy, but I didn’t mind. He didn’t smile often – except when I came to visit or his daughters or grand-daughters were visiting. Otherwise, he moseyed around his house, read the paper in his lazy boy in the living room, watched the news and kept his home neat as a pin. Although Essie made dinner for the family (herself, her brothers Uncle Bob and Uncle Russ, and me whenever I was there), Russ took care of all of his other chores. He cleaned his own house, did his laundry, grocery shopped, paid his bills etc. He was autonomous and self sufficient.
My family used to tell me they didn’t want me to shoot guns because Uncle Russ also had a son who he lost in a tragic gun accident when he was 18. His son was shooting at a box floating down the river for fun, when unbeknownst to him, another teenage boy on the other side of the river was doing the same. The other boy shot first and the bullet hit Russ’s son and killed him instantly.
Someone (my mother?) once told me that Russ used to be a happy man before his wife died from a sudden heart attack when she was in her 50s. After that, he was never the same. He carried with him a permanent sadness.
No wonder Uncle Russ carried a permanent sadness with him.
Uncle Russ was a backup for my Aunt Essie. When she wasn’t around, he’d cook for me and keep me company. Sometimes we’d go for long car rides to pickup his daughter or sister when they wanted to visit. They were both nuns who lived in towns a few hours away.
What I remember most about Uncle Russ was the smell of his pipe, his easygoing demeanor and that he always had Fig Newtons in his pantry. That, and the many evenings we spent sitting together on his porch.
Uncle Russ died over 40 years ago when I was a young teenager.
I don’t remember as much about Uncle Russ as much as Uncle Bob (my favorite uncle) and Aunt Es (who I credit with being my best caretaker ever). But sometimes when I think of him now, I wonder, “Am I becoming Uncle Russ?”
I share that permanent sadness. I too had a wife and a child who died. I too am retired, live alone and have a quiet, simple life. I too am self sufficient, dependable and relatively content.
I too show no desire to fall in love again and remarry.
And sometimes, I’m kind of a grump.
Well, if I’m becoming Uncle Russ, that’s OK with me. I miss him and would have loved to be able to talk to him today.