
Studio portrait of my uncle, undated, taken in Philadelphia
Monday Morning Musings:
My uncle was a kind man,
with a twinkle in his eye.
Perhaps he would not seem remarkable
unless you knew him, knew that
he was curious, with a love of gadgets–
my mom always talked about that–
his latest gadget, she would say,
after he purchased a camera or computer,
an e-reader, or kitchen appliance.
We sat in her apartment, after hearing the news.
We drank to his memory,
blood red wine,
in bright blue plastic cups
like college students at a party.
We ate brownies, remembering
his love of chocolate—
that love, a family trait, it seems
a dominant gene.
“Didn’t he used to pour chocolate syrup
on his cereal?” I asked my mom.
And she laughed, happy memories mixed with sad.
Then she remembered how excited he was
when their father, my grandfather,
sent chocolate Tastykakes to him in Florida.
Isn’t it funny what we remember?
I think of how I never knew my uncle as a young man,
but I’ve heard the tale of how, when they were first married,
my aunt asked my mother how she prepared a particular dish.
My mom replied that she used “the shit method,”
shocking her new sister-in-law.
My mom then explained that she meant shitarein,
a Yiddish phrase,
a little of this and that
thrown together.
It makes a good story.
It’s strange to think of them all so young and carefree,
children of the Great Depression who learned to navigate
the technology of the twenty-first century.
I learned that my aunt and one, perhaps two, of my cousins
lived in our house in Philadelphia for a brief time
when I was a toddler.
Of course, not something I recall,
Though I vaguely remember the big, old house
in Germantown.
My uncle must have been in Miami,
I suppose to get settled there
before his family arrived.
A big move to a new city.
I remember their house, perhaps not their first,
but both of the Miami houses I remember had sunken living rooms—
a feature that I, as a young child, then associated with Miami,
thinking that all Miami houses must be constructed that way.
Random memories of visiting my uncle, aunt, and cousins—
their little dachshund,
(Was her name Penny?),
my aunt playing the piano late at night,
the music forming a soothing backdrop to my dreams,
swimming in their pool,
playing board games,
and when my husband and I visited
shortly after becoming engaged,
I remember my cousin baking cookies in a microwave oven,
the first one I’d even seen (See: gadgets, above).
I was a young mother when I read
my uncle’s hilarious account of pooping
while sitting out Hurricane Andrew–
sitting, you understand, taking on more than one meaning here.
He and my aunt huddled in that inside corridor–
except for that brief, and necessary foray into the bathroom,
umbrella held strategically—no shitarein story this time, the literal thing.
I wish I still had that letter,
but relieved a bit there were no selfies then.
Only my uncle could have made such a terrifying experience
laugh out loud funny—
in retrospect.
Real-time texts might have revealed a different story.
After the storm,
they emerged to find destruction all around them,
and then the rebuilding began.
Yet their foundation was strong.
Years later,
I remember my aunt and uncle coming to Philadelphia
for my mom’s 85th birthday.
My daughters said, “Uncle Irv smells so good.”
I have no idea what the scent was,
but I think it was his own—
as if kindness and genuine interest
in people and places enveloped him.
We all loved him.
He died as he lived,
gently, without a fuss
with his true love by his side.
A star has gone from our family universe
leaving a black hole
dense with memories
but without the twinkling of life and light.
Perhaps with time,
just as starlight travels
across the vastness of space,
so in our hearts
we will find that light again.
A lovely memory poem. Your uncle looks very twinkly in the photograph!
Wonderful memorial, sorry for your loss. (K)
Thank you, K.
Sounds like quite a guy, hard to lose people like that.
I wish I had known him better. As I was writing, I realized how little I really knew about him.
You have something really precious in those memories and in having known a person who obviously made you happy. I am sorry he is not here anymore.
Thank you, Claudia. I do wish I had known him better, but I did love him.
I feel as if I knew your uncle and am now saddened by his passing. What a tribute you gave him, Merril.
That is such a sweet comment, Janet. Thank you!
You seem to know quite a lot about him, Merril, reading between the lines. I wonder if he knew the Finks? I’m distantly related to Finks in Germantown. An aunt of my dad’s married one.
Gosh, I don’t know, Jane. I don’t think my uncle ever lived in Germantown, but my parents did. Wouldn’t it be funny if we were somehow related? 🙂
One of my dad’s aunts ( from County Meath) married a Fischer, another married an Edelman, and the Finks were either related to the Edelmans or another aunt married a Fink, but the Edelmans and the Finks were from Germantown. I don’t know much about the American branch of the family.
My husband and I went to school with some Edelmans, but in Ardmore, not Germantown, but it’s a fairly common name. 🙂
I bet you know someone who knows someone who’s related to someone who married a Fink or an Edelman. We’ll have to leave it as a tenuous relationship 🙂
This musing is both amusing and heartfelt. You gotta love a guy who pours chocolate syrup on breakfast cereal. Once my mother got out some Hershey’s chocolate candy blocks after we ate our Cheerios. She said with a shy smile, “Don’t you think we need a little chocolate now?”
Thanks, Marian. It was when my uncle was growing up–before cocoa puffs, I guess. I would have liked your mom–chocolate is good at any time! 🙂
I’m sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Bruce.
This is a lovely tribute to your uncle Irv Merril. I felt both sad and happy reading it. Long life to you and family. May his dear soul rest in peace.
Thank you so much, Susan!
Beautiful snapshot into a lifetime well-lived and a man well loved. I agree that their light shines within our hearts long after they are gone. And how lucky he was to have his true love at his side when he went “to the other side!” We should all be so blessed.
Thank you, Susan!
Always so enjoyable to read your memory-journeys. Thank you for sharing your family with us. I loved these lines, especially:
“I have no idea what the scent was,
but I think it was his own—
as if kindness and genuine interest
in people and places enveloped him.”
Thank you so much, Jennifer!
This is such a beautiful tribute and memorial to your uncle. I love your description of why he smelled so good. I’m so sorry for your loss, Merril.
Thanks so much, Robin. It was so funny, how my daughters talked about how good he smelled. 🙂
a wonderful remembrance of your uncle. sounds like a decent man man who lived a decent life. and that makes him a remarkable man.
Thank you, Doug. He was a very decent man.
This brought tears to my eyes. He sounds like someone who made a lot of lives around him happier. He looks so young in the photo.
Thank you so much, Luanne. I took the photo out of the frame to see if there was a date, but there wasn’t. I’m not sure how old my uncle was in this photo.
Lovely poem. Wonderful tribute
Thank you, Derrick.
I can’t think of any better eulogy than this one:
“My daughters said, ‘Uncle Irv smells so good.’
I have no idea what the scent was,
but I think it was his own—
as if kindness and genuine interest
in people and places enveloped him.”
Beautiful, tribute, full of the sweet, shitty perfume of life.
Thank you, Shirley! 🙂
I’m so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful and touching tribute to a wonderful man.
Thank you so much!
A beautiful tribute to what sounds like a wonderful man. Love the part about the star leaving a black hole in your family to be filled with memories. Well done.
Thank you so much!