And then there's that lingering nagging cough, the force and frequency of which have managed to impart some type of either soft tissue or bone injury to my right upper rib area, resulting in a lovely sharp pain that hindered me for a good 20 minutes from rising from my bed for a 3AM potty break the other morning. The couch is now my new best friend for the foreseeable future. If the construction of my words appears a touch more 'unique' than normal, blame it on the magic cough medicine with hydrocodone that makes its way down my gullet every 12 hours, along with 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and a half-dose of Mucinex-D. Don't worry: I'm NOT driving though I do continue to operate my iPhone and laptop.
Though I'm been claiming it for the past few months, as of Monday the 21st yours truly is officially 42 years old. I like it better than 40, in part due to the nature of the number itself being divisible by 3. Have I mentioned my affection for any and all numbers that are products of 3? Or that you can discern if a larger number is divisible by three by adding its digits together: if that sum equals a number divisible by 3, then you are in business! But enough about my personal interest in triplicate.
So, my Uncle Zan -- a.k.a. Zopie, Zoa, Peter-Pot -- sacrificed 4 days of round-trip driving in the mercurial family mini-van with his two growing boys to grace us with his presence for five enjoyable days. Because I enjoy celebrating the special days in life, right along with the 'every days,' having the man who named me for 'Glory to God' when he was just 17, who introduced me to the ocean, horses, fishing, Captain Crunch and the .357 Magnum, who is my father figure in a childhood where my biological dad was pretty much MIA, who can regale an intimate crowd with colorful stories about all manner of eventful memories and learnings, having him here in my home, with my family, on both my birthday AND Thanksgiving was in and of itself a most special occasion, a significant gratitude, and a generous birthday present. Given his particular personality, I highly doubt that he fully realizes the magnitude of positive impact that his trip to Middle Tennessee had on me. Perhaps his wife -- who remained behind to work and hold down the fort, effectively handing her men over to us for a short time -- will read these words to him. After drilling a hole into the part of his brain which is meant to accept sincerely-aimed arrows of appreciation about HIMSELF from those who admire his character and overall person!
Zan loves music. If such a thing could exist, he would be considered a Siamese-twin to music: it's that intertwined in his DNA. He's self-taught on the piano and guitar; sings in a deep pleasing voice which inspires calm ; and, he composes his own creations, with and without lyrics, and also enjoys reworking old favorites for personal enjoyment. When I was a kid, he used to crack up me and my siblings with humorous renditions of tunes from the disco era, including the Bee-Gees, and famous singers from almost every genre and decade within the past century. As a family, especially during those long hours on the road, moving from state to state, we would all (Zan, mom, our Uncle Dan and us kids) sing from a repertoire of Jesus songs, John Denver and whatever else the grown-ups deemed worthy: "God is Love" and "Country Roads" were, and still are, my favorites. Such times made long road trips less tedious. Such times blunted the stress of push-starting that old red Toyota Corolla because the real starter in the engine didn't work: a particular memory of an icy road in Manitou Springs at night, snow falling, a slight incline seeming ever so larger when push literally came to shove!
Though I loved Zan's voice, I didn't realize just how special his ability to jump into soprano falsettos was when his normal range falls within a smoothly timbred cantante, or bass-baritone mix. But the little girl who was affectionately called Doc by her uncle always knew that this tall thin man full of good humor and a talent for succeeding in everything he tried (gardening, photography, golf, woodworking) was wholly special. He managed to be larger-than-life AND totally approachable simultaneously. Once you met him, you would not soon forget him. Never will I.
In fact, the best memories of my early childhood begin with the memorable month-long stay I had with him up in Fairbanks, Alaska. He lived in an apartment over the RCA electronics store where he worked. Just down the street was the hotel/bar/restaurant, it went by the name of 'The Roaring 20's,' where he played piano for tips in the evening. I remember that the rooms were situated around the hotel pool and raised up several floors, which seemed to go up and up forever to my young eyes. His friendship with the owners of this establishment allowed me entrance, and grand eating privileges, in the kitchen, where I feasted upon juicy steaks, Texas-sized slabs of French toast, and whatever else I might think to request at their friendly behest. One afternoon I recall walking over to inquire about lunch, only to lay eyes on a gorgeous round of fresh Roquefort cheese all the way from France, blue-veined, richly scented, creamy and awe-inspiring. This exposure may have upped my love affair with exotic cheeses and creative food in general.
Whether serving in the National Guard, boots shiny and shoulders erect, or wielding a machete on banana plantations in Israel, forehead shiny and shoulders set against the discovery of tarantulas, Zan performed all tasks to their utmost, unwilling to accept less or do the minimum. Putting up miles of fence in the vast expanse of Colorado plains; blasting in Wyoming; day jobs; night jobs. And Doc was watching. Absorbing. Taking it in for future use. He and my Uncle Dan, once his best friend and partner in adventures, did their share of hitchhiking and motorcycling across the United States, when such things were safer and not actions which immediately set off alarm bells of suspicion to female passers-by. They may have even carried an ax for practical reasons. The tales he could tell!
Once -- should anything of this nature ever be performed MORE than once in a lifetime? -- Zan had to kill my sister's pet turkey, Frank, when we lived on a farm outside of Salem, Oregon. Food and money had run out. Mouths needed filling. And the crap job fell to Zan, who had not a violent bone in his body, who believed in a family pet as much as the next animal-loving guy, to knock the oversized thought-he-was-a-goat bird in the head with a hammer, heft the huge carcass into the bathtub, and cut poor Frank into three sizable chunks so as to fit him into the oven. All over the hearty objections of my heartbroken sister, who would not succumb to her nourishment-deprived belly grumblings, feeling that the act of ingesting Frank would be more cannibalistic than anything else. After all, Frank's mate, Henrietta, had already been taken out by my dog of then, a pretty Shepherd pup named Cassie. Poor Frank had stepped in to fill the shoes of TWO turkeys. I'm certain that the 3 surviving goats who dined regularly WITH Frank all around the acreage would have been appalled had they an awareness that their feathered pal was dined UPON!
But that was then. Sharing coffee from the same pot while discussing the merits of Regis Philbin on morning TV is now. Playing Pictionary and Apples-to-Apples with the Zan and his boys in our kitchen, laughing and making fun of one another, basking in the warm fullness of my mom's hearty stew and whole grain biscuits in our bellies -- that is now. Watching our two teenaged sons interact, realizing the significance of an uncle and a niece both in the thick of raising similarly-aged boys in this charged society, knowing Zan once changed my diapers and brushed my hair, knowing I would wait by the window as a toddler, calling "Zoa! Zoa! Zoa!" as my way of wondering when he would return home from work and, thus, close the gap left in the family circle by his absence, it is all a big deal for me.
And that certain healed hole in the ceiling above the stairwell, put there by a certain 15 year-old who tripped in the attic while a certain 16 year-old cousin was giving him a tour not listed anywhere on the itinerary, and repaired by a certain handyman uncle, who was vacationing away from the duties of his apartment complex managing/maintenance job, but didn't want my husband to set his eyes upon the drywall injury for a second day? That hole will be a story and a memory for many Thanksgivings to come. And go. One of those classic holiday missteps (literally) that grow into legend with every retelling. Never to be forgotten.
Just like Uncle Zan.
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