Add to his feeling of distance the ass-raping, immersion-in-lava, take-all-your-money-your-pride-and-your-dog, country/western divorce he’s been put through by Satan, herself, and you could say that my Uncle Chris is a lonely, lonely man. The eight or so years he was married to that psychotic cunt aged him at least two decades.

I was 15 when he got married, and I sang at the wedding. There were gardenias all over the place, perfuming the fuck out of everything. Everyone looked beautiful, including the cunt-bride, and her cunt-daughter. The two of them later ganged up on my uncle like two sick characters out of an Albee play.

Poor, poor guy. All my life, Chris has wanted a wife and whole litter of kids.

I think it’s a fair to assess that Uncle Chris thinks I’m the shit. I think he’s the shit, too; or he was the shit, and has the capacity to be the shit again. Man, he’s trying. We have had so much fun together.

Chris used to be my favorite uncle. Still is, I guess. He was cool as hell. A soccer star, triathlete, marathon runner, outdoorsman, extreme skier/ski patroller, swimmer, tennis player, ocean lover. A singer, guitar player, actor, and all-around Rennaissance Man. He has an absolutely beautiful singing voice, and he always exhibited his talents as if they were the most natural things in the world.

He’s my mother’s baby brother, and, for all intents and purposes, is more like a big brother to me than an uncle. By the time Chris was born, my other uncles (or “drunkles,” among whom Chris might rank, these sad days, especially after that last DWI,) were already out of the house. One was busy flunking out of college and gearing up for a life in the postal service, and as his momma’s Oedipal flunky/golden boy. The other (the hellion, who once shoved a pea up his nose and forgot about it until it had rotted and caused an infection,) had run away to join a commune and father a love-child.

My grandmother was so burnt out by the time Chris was a kid that she didn’t care one way or another, and my grandfather was just an abusive asshole. So, my mom raised Chris, and he still calls her every day that he feels less than 100%. (Translation: he calls her every day.)

Long before he was married, when I was 10 and 11, Chris used to take my sister and I for weekend ski trips. We’d watch action movies at night, (I will never forget that scene from “Die Harder Part Whatever” when a character is killed by being stabbed in the eye with an icicle,) wake up at pitch-black dawn, stop somewhere for a greasy, toasty, yolky breakfast, and head to the mountain to help Uncle Chris open the trails. I loved it.

The slopes were empty, frigid, and dark, and Chris would hand Kara and I the “SLOW DOWN – ICE AHEAD” signs, and tell us where to post them. He would stay uphill from us while we ski-ed down to anchor the sign in the snow, as a warning for the daylight skiers. Kara and I were skillful on our skis, and Chris trusted us. He made us feel safe. He would often take us off-trail, through the woods, helping us create pathways between trails that never would have existed without his guidance.

One weekend, at Wildcat Mountain in New Hampshire, the temperatures plummeted to –60 degrees Fahrenheit. While she and I were on the lift to the summit of the mountain, my sister started crying because the wind chill was so scary. I listened, concerned and curious, as my feet turned to cinderblocks and my eyeballs dried to dust behind my goggles. It was that cold.

By the time we had reached the summit, the tip of my nose (the only bit of flesh left naked to the cold) had turned pure white from frostbite. Kara and I, having family clearance, headed to the Ski Patrol shack to wait for our Uncle Chris and slug down mug after mug of The Best New England Clam Chowder I Have Ever Had In My Life, served from a keg.

Chris met us when his shift was over, and took us safely to the bottom of the trail.

One summer, at my grandmother’s Connecticut cottage, my uncle Chris inadvertently smashed the fuck out of Kara’s nose with a tennis ball. Blood poured from her face. I think she was wearing those jelly shoes from the 80s. She was fine, ultimately, and it was one of the coolest motherfucking things I’ve ever seen.

Chris was a jolly “sink or swim” role model, if ever there was one. He was so much fun. Up until that hell-sent marriage, my friends and I all thought he was the shit. He was The Shit.

The past few years, he’s gotten sad and preachy. Like most of my family, Uncle Chris is very religious. I was raised with a healthy spiritual upbringing. Catholic mass every Sunday until I was confirmed at seventeen, and could make my own decision not to attend. That decision was always respected.

My mom and her siblings all went to parochial schools, with nuns rapping kids on their knuckles with rulers, refusing to answer certain (relevant) questions, the whole shebang. But even as a child in the 1950s, my mom questioned the blind “justice” inflicted by her teachers, and drew her own conclusions based on what seemed right to her, versus what was manmade Biblical bullshit. I respect that.

My dad was raised without faith, but as an adult, he always attended church with my mom, my sister, and I, as an observer. He wasn’t baptized Catholic until he was 51 years old, and only after he had been attending AA for a number of years, and had done a whole lot of theological research to find his Higher Power in my mother’s church. I was 20 when I attended his baptism in Boston, and I remember him being surprised by my presence. It was a touching ceremony, and I was proud of him.

These days, when my mother mentions to me someone we know who’s going through a rough patch, she says, “Maybe you could pray for him/her … if you do that kind of thing.” It’s really quite gentle and lovely, the tentative way in which she brings it up, and it shows that she respects me.

My Uncle Chris? I know he respects me, but he’s so desperate these days that he’ll take any relevant moment to Talk God at me. I listen, because I know it’s more for his benefit than mine, but it makes me sad. He preaches with the unspoken pleas, “Learn from my mistakes” and “Please help me.”

He’s in his mid-forties now, he’s graying, and he’s more out of shape than I ever thought he would be, though he’s working on it. It’s eerie how similar his posture is to that of my grandfather’s.

My sister lacks patience, and is rather unkind to my uncle. She’ll confront him bitchily on every bit of hypocrisy he presents … and while I think that’s valuable, I also believe that such confrontation can be approached with delicacy, when dealing with the wounded. She comes on full force out of pride, and it makes her look about as badass as it would if she was kicking a retarded puppy. Chris feels like an asshole enough on his own. He doesn’t need help from family.

Here’s the thing: Chris has offered, with gusto, to help me move from Chicago to San Francisco. And, yay. I still love my Uncle Chris, and we have good conversations. I really think he’ll be okay, and he’ll find what he wants, as long as he stops desperately hitting on twenty-something hipster bartenders, and is kind to himself.

At the same time, though, OH MOTHERFUCKER HELP ME HELP ME I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE 36 HOURS IN A U-HAUL WITH MY UNCLE AND HIS PREACHING AND HIS MOTHERFUCKING CHRISTIAN ROCK I DON’T KNOW IF I’M THAT PATIENT OR SOCRATIC AND I PROMISE YOU I PROMISE YOU WE WILL PROBABLY SING IN THE TRUCK OH LORDY LORDY HELP ME.

Whew. That being said, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004