Read the first three parts here: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3
“The most important thing is to enjoy your life — to be happy — it’s really all that matters in the end.”
— Audrey Hepburn
My great-uncle Sam was many things, but to me, he was a teacher at heart. He taught me how to gather the essentials to brew a great cup of sassafras tea, how to fish with great enjoyment, grow a colorful perennial flower garden and to see the joy in simple days that many miss.
Sam and I exchanged cards and letters during the years I lived in North Carolina, and an occasional phone call was a happy surprise. If I planned a visit home, he wanted to be sure his schedule was open.
It was on one of these visits home that Sam brought a gift-wrapped box to my father. It was a perfect tomahawk that Sam had found as a young boy on the family’s celery farm. Though my dad had an extensive arrowhead collection, he’d told his uncle that the one thing he had never found was a tomahawk. Sam wanted this great childhood find to go to his nephew.
Even in retirement, Sam was the best-dressed man in any room. He had style, which shines through in every picture I ever took of him, striking a pose without ever trying. I can still envision him sauntering in, wearing a neatly pressed shirt and colorful tie, sport coat sometimes traded for a sweater, his shoes shined to perfection. He was handsome and upbeat, and joy walked in the door with him.
“Let’s fire up the grill!” Sam said one day, arriving with a picnic basket.
He had tasted something new at a small-town festival and couldn’t wait to share it. Kielbasa released a heavenly scent while he grilled it for us, and what a treat it was.
Sam would share family history with the spark of a grand storyteller at our table. Dad and Sam would jokingly hold the biggest eater challenge when Mom fixed a feast. “Darn, I got full!” Dad would say, throwing in the towel. Sam would spin the big lazy Susan in the middle of our round table and take another spoonful of mashed potatoes, saying, “I guess I win again! There’s always room for Dimp’s great mashed potatoes!”
Sam, a smooth character, could claim victory while paying a compliment like no one else.
When my son was just shy of 2, Sam learned Barnum & Bailey’s circus was coming to town, and he wanted to take us. I have a great picture of Sam holding little Cort, mesmerized by elephants, dated Sept. 30, 1988. I interviewed a circus clown for our local paper, shooting pictures under a brilliant blue sky as we took it all in. Sam’s green eyes, still sparkling at a youthful age 80, said seeing the circus made him feel like a kid again.
I was 6 weeks away from my due date with my second baby, and we had chosen not to find out the gender. As we closed out our day, I asked Sam to join us for dinner back at my house, but he declined, saying he wanted me to rest. His sweet concern brought tears to my eyes, moved by the joy of this memorable day and not wanting it to end.
As I gave Sam another hug, he smiled, placed a hand on my cheek and said, “I’ll see you soon, holding a baby girl for me to meet!”
Eleven days later, I was preparing dinner when Dad called. “Honey, I have some hard news.” Uncle Sam had died at his home after pruning trees in his small orchard. It looked as though he went inside, laid down neatly on the floor, which he sometimes did when his back hurt.
Neighbors noticed he had not come back outside and checked on him, and then called for help. Dad asked that I go break the news to his father, Sam’s older brother, and then go with him to Sam’s home.
As we planned his funeral, we learned Sam had willed his estate to my parents. “It shocks me,” Dad said, “but the biggest feeling is how do I say thank you for everything Sam has been to me?”
Two weeks later, my daughter was born, early. One of my first thoughts as I came out of the haze of an emergency C-section was that I couldn’t wait to tell Sam I was so happy he was right.
He had predicted a lovely baby girl would be arriving before October ended. Caroline was born Oct. 30.
Sam had learned young that building a happy life is a vital priority, and most importantly, it is something no one else can do for us. He taught this to us by example, making the most of simple days that can so easily be squandered.
There are people in our lives who leave such a deep imprint that they never really leave us. Uncle Sam is imprinted in this way for me, along with my father, who died just seven years after Sam. I carry them both with me in bittersweet memories, always missed, forever treasured.
