Long years ago, it now has been, since we lost Uncle Bill. But in my mind I still can hear his whistle, oh so shrill. Out to his porch, down to the yard, or maybe just to talk, he'd blow a blast. I'd run so fast: he'd like to take a walk. "Take me to town. No, turn around. I want to have a sleep." And so it went, day after day—nerve wracking pace to keep. One summer he had asked us if we'd come and stay awhile. "I'd like to have some company," he said with a sly smile. "I'd like to sit on my front porch and watch the world go by. 'They' said that I can't stay here. Can you imagine why? 'Unless you get some help,' said they, 'we'll put you in a Home. We cannot take the chance you'll fall. You cannot stay alone.'" So that is how it came about we went to live with Bill. Although he made life difficult, it wasn't all "up hill." Some days were bad; some days were good; some days just in between. Some days he'd be so pleasant, and others, just plain mean. He couldn't help his temper flares, so we tried hard to please. Poor Uncle Bill was ailing with Bronze Addison's disease. And then one day in '90—a hot day in July—he bussed to town, without us—we still can't figure why? We think it was to vex us. He said, "I'll go alone. I don't want you to follow. I know my own way home." A full three hours later we heard a frantic knock. A policeman told us gently, "We found him on the walk." Now Uncle Bill was elderly, well nigh on eighty-six; so it was not so easy, a broken hip to fix. But he was also feisty. He said, "I'll be home soon. So you make sure you cut the lawn, and keep the raspb'rries pruned. And never mind the laundry; you wash far, far too much. And don't clean up the basement. My tools, don't you dare touch." But we just smiled and told him, "Don't worry, Uncle Bill; when you come home, all mended, your house will be here still." But Bill did not recover—not like he was before. He'd walk, and then he's stumble and land hard on the floor. So age and illness conquered. Poor Uncle Bill grew worse. We had to watch him carefully—to be his constant nurse. Sometimes it was depressing to sit there by his bed, to watch him just deteriorate, refusing to be fed. On the twenty-third, December, at 9:05 a.m. I held my uncle in my arms. He died right there and then. We missed our dear old uncle, although he'd been a trial. We often think about him, and the thought brings us a smile. He'd talk of God and politics: of things he thought not right. And if you dared to disagree, he was ready for a fight. He'd rage about a lot of things, like poverty and such. But weather didn't bother him; at least, not very much. In winter he'd be on his porch, all wrapped up in a gown. In summer he would suntan, until his skin was golden brown. We've run across his likeness in other old, old men. And our mind zooms back to "those good old days" with Uncle Bill again.
© Helen Dowd
