It's How Much it Winks at You

Atticus in the Rain

Atticus and I were out in the rain the other night.

We came out of Food Lion and the rain was falling in sheets from the dark sky.

He was walking by holding one of my hands, but he wanted to hold his other hand out to feel the rain. He kept twisting his body around and sort of falling over onto the wet pavement. He seemed to want to do this, but then would cry out to be helped back up again.

His pants were getting soaked. He was only wearing his dinosaur jacket and I was worried he'd get sick (he'd been cold-free for over a week).

Earlier he'd done well pushing the little shopping cart around the store. 

He got scared of a guy with a floor buffer.

He was so enchanted by the rain. He kept lifting his face up to it and trying to catch it in his mouth. His eyes were so bright and young.

Breaking Loose Like James

As the year turns over and a new one begins, I've been thinking about my uncle, my father's older brother James. 

Some things about my uncle James:

I never knew James well. He visited us a few times when I was growing up. He had a steady, non-caustic presence to be around, and was always kind to me. He and my father had a certain grit about them that made sense when they were together. It made me curious about who they were, and who they weren't, and the different ways that siblings could be connected but also, at the same time, totally disconnected.

James was somewhat famous in my family for having committed a crime. I guess you could say it was a crime of passion, but as a kid it was hard for me to imagine him having that much passion. He seemed so calm and regular. He was a tall, broadly-built man who moved slowly and smoothly. When he visited he mostly sat on the couch. He seemed completely at-ease, but at the same time I got the feeling that he was completely not at-ease. It was as if he existed on two different planes.

James's crime was robbery. He didn't kill anyone to do it. I think he just knocked the other guy out and ran off with the money.  In my mind there's the story of the crime, then the story of the days or weeks after the crime, and then a period when he served a sentence after turning himself in, which I knew almost nothing about.

The visits to our house, I think, occurred after all of this. So it was as if those experiences of James' were no longer relevant. It was such an effort for anyone in my family to socialize with anyone else that an individual's past traumas and crimes were politely disregarded. Instead we grappled with the anxiety of being in each other's physical presence and talking like normal people.

James visited less as the years went by, and we did not go to visit him. I heard less and less about him. He was never able to quit drinking, which affected his health. I had no direct experience with this, just stories from my father, which by the time I heard them already seemed several times removed from the source.

James's health declined, and he died during a time when my father was travelling in Alaska. My mom and I went to the funeral. I was ashamed that I hadn't tried to get to know James better, or any of my father's family, as they all felt like strangers to me.

I've been thinking of him, in part, because I met his oldest son last year, and it was truly one of the best experiences of my year, or possibly of the past ten years. David is a remarkable man with a beautiful life, and a lot of his father (and mother) lives on in him. I hope to be more like him when I grow up.

I've also just been thinking of James in light of the fact that he committed a crime. On some level he dramatically broke with tradition and ordinary responsibility. This year, when I'm travelling the same paths inside my head, all leading to the same direction, it's somehow helpful to think of James. Not that I want to do anything illegal, at all. I guess it's just fun to think of what other things could be done.