QUARANTINE LIFE: FAREWELL

 

My uncle died yesterday. 

He was my late mother’s last surviving sibling— the one closest in age to her, by nine years. She adored her big brother. I remember her telling me about the only whipping she got at school. “Miss LeBlanc asked me where my homework was, and I said, “Boo Boo didn’t do it for me!” Mom had been a preemie, and he’d always looked out for her.

The first time I ever saw him cry was as we stood at her internment  at Fort Lincoln cemetery. It had snowed considerably that February. “Lord, I don’t want to leave my baby out in this cold”, he cried. 

My Uncle was affectionately called “Boo”. He was named after his father, Van, who he said was “a good man”. In speech so thick, and infused with Louisiana rhythm that made you lean in to listen, he mentioned how devastated he’d been when his father died as a result of an accident at the railroad yard in Addis. He idolized his father, and said he’d wished the Lord had taken anyone other than him. He got his work ethic from him. He couldn’t sit still, either. 

My uncle’s  gift was in his hands. He was a builder; a master carpenter; an artist, even, and he taught others the importance of doing a job well. A sloppy, hastily done job was unacceptable, especially if you had the right tools. There was always someone he was trying to mentor and help; trying to instill the value of knowing a trade, and being able to sustain oneself, and one’s family. No able bodied man should have an excuse to just “hang on the corner” or be idle.

His handiwork was impeccable. He knew how to assess a job; tell a prospective customer what they did or didn’t need—and he’d be right. Mom always told him what a killing he’d make building cabinetry alone if he moved North. 

My Uncle Boo is the reason I love popcorn. He’d pop roasting pans full and make the biggest, most delicious popcorn balls. When we’d spend summers in Louisiana, he and my Uncle Woody made sure we’d make the rounds to visit other relatives. They were like summer surrogate dads. 

In my family, on both sides, there was a generation of men: not perfect, but hardworking, responsible, generous, committed, community oriented, civic minded, thrifty, outspoken, brave, and strong. They’d seen a lot; experienced everything a racist, bigoted, segregated America had thrown at them, and still emerged seemingly unscathed on the outside. Whatever fears, insecurities, or anger they had, I imagine, was between them and God. They were veterans, disciplined, and hopeful. They served even if their country had an aversion to serving and being fair to them. How broken they were wasn’t something they’d show. They were God-fearing, manly men, proud, opinionated, and blessed with longevity. They saw their children and their children’s children grow and thrive. Even when their health failed, they still waxed philosophical; still displayed humor and wit. All bets and filters were off. They’d defied odds and circumstances and lived quite remarkable lives. They could talk a blue streak and keep you mesmerized and laughing. They were complicated. You knew what they wanted you to know. One thing you knew was that, in their own way, they loved you.

My condolences to my dear cousins, and everyone who loved and cared for “Mr. Van” Washington, one of Plaquemine’s oldest residents—my wise, delightful (and funny) Uncle Boo.

Rest In Peace, Sir.

“Don’t let nobody make no fool out you, Baby.”