Sometimes Uncle Carl drives us crazy. Like the time he comes all the way from Pittsburgh and persuades us to stage a mini opera.
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| Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for his great nieces. |
My little brothers are not remotely interested in opera. I am ten-years-old, however, and dying to play the part of the long suffering Mimi who dies in her lover's arms. That my lover Rudolfo is also my little brother Joe slightly diminishes the thrill, but I’m willing to overlook it for the role of a lifetime.
Uncle Carl rehearses with us in the basement barely concealing his irritation at my brothers’ less than adequate performances. Suddenly his eye is caught by a large stain on the ancient Persian carpet. It’s the very carpet that Uncle Carl himself made as a gift to Mom and Dad.
“My God,” he moans and places a hand over his heart. Uncle Carl is often dramatic like this. “What's that?” he points to the offending stain.
Our four-year-old sister Debbie, lounging on the battered old basement sofa, follows his gaze. “That’s where Duchess had puppies,” she offers agreeably before jamming her two favorite fingers back in her mouth.
Uncle Carl is livid, and the opera is forgotten before it even begins. My brothers are delighted, but I’m fairly crushed not to inhabit the character of the doomed Mimi.
A lifelong bachelor, Uncle Carl takes care of our Grandmother Brown in Pennsylvania but commits to visiting us regularly - mainly, we suspect, because he regards us as uncivilized hoydens. Uncle Carl makes it his mission to refine us.
“Happy hour!” he sings out at three o'clock on summer afternoons, and we tumble from our rooms or from outdoors to indulge in a fizzy soft drink served on a tray with sweet cookies arranged artfully on the side. Everything is a gala event when Uncle Carl arrives. Tall and cosmopolitan with an elegant eastern accent, he introduces us to a world of crystal goblets, napkin rings and linen table cloths. Before bed, we line up at the bottom of the staircase for “Penny, Penny, Who’s Got the Penny?” Whenever we correctly guess which of Uncle Carl’s fists conceals the penny, we progress up the stairs until one of us reaches the top and is jubilantly declared the winner. He makes balloon animals, has all the time in the world for a game of Monopoly, and marches us around the block like tin soldiers.
We adore Uncle Carl.
If we don't always appreciate his determination to refine us, we do look forward to the big Christmas box he sends without fail every year. Filled with individually wrapped gifts for each of us, it's always the last box we open at Christmas time. The Hamers, our only cousins and a family of seven boys residing on the other side of the country, receive an equally large box. All year long, Uncle Carl combs thrift stores, white elephants and yard sales collecting presents and mementos that eventually will be wrapped and stuffed in our Christmas box. In addition, every member of our large extended family - aunts and uncles and second cousins - receives birthday, anniversary and Valentine cards. Uncle Carl forgets no one. Even as we grow older, marry and produce children and grandchildren of our own, Uncle Carl is meticulous about recording names and births for inclusion in the Christmas box.
"I'm still waiting for those names," he calls to scold me one day shortly before Thanksgiving. During one productive year, several of my nieces and nephews have become parents, and I've forgotten my promise to record the names of Uncle Carl's newest great, great nieces and nephews. Uncle Carl's reminded me on three different occasions, and rather than face his wrath, I make up fictitious names for three new babies.
"Why does Uncle Carl think our grandchildren are called Miranda and Kevin?" my brother Rick stares at me accusingly the following Christmas Eve. I've forgotten all about the made up names. Rick laughs out loud at my discomfiture. "You don't even know the names of my grandchildren," he shakes his head.
"Don't tell Uncle Carl," I sigh.
The truth is, Uncle Carl tends to be just a tiny bit controlling. When my sisters and I get married, he kindly offers to make floral arrangements. We don't realize the hefty price to be paid for this generous offer. Uncle Carl not only takes charge of the flowers but everything else besides. Before Deb's wedding, he orders all of us out to the river to collect green foliage for the altar at St. Mary's Cathedral. We have no idea what we're picking. If it's green, we stuff it into giant garbage bags and obediently haul it to the church. Uncle Carl completely ignores the elderly pastor who tells him that under no circumstances are wedding decorations permitted on the altar and, behind the old priest's back, creates a magnificent arch of greenery precisely around the forbidden area. Father is furious when he discovers the arrangement too late and nearly speechless when, during the ceremony, he spies marijuana leaves skillfully woven through the arrangement.
In spite of his high handedness, we never doubt Uncle Carl's devotion to us. He flies from Pennsylvania in a thunderstorm to be with us for our mother's funeral, and twenty years later he rushes to our sides for Dad's. He even comes from Pennsylvania one year for Rick's high school graduation and my college graduation. In all the craziness, our baby brother Jeff, who's just completed kindergarten, is nearly forgotten by everybody except Uncle Carl.
"Da, da da da, DA DA!" Uncle Carl sings out the notes to "Pomp and Circumstance" as Jeff, with grave dignity, marches through the back yard. Uncle Carl throws a party right there, and we all congratulate Jeff on his remarkable achievement.
This coming March, Uncle Carl will turn 90. He's begged us time and time again to visit him in Pittsburgh, and at last I promise him we will come for his 90th. But a few weeks ago, on a warm October afternoon, Aunt Patty calls me from her home in Virginia with sad news. Uncle Carl has died.
"A stroke," she says hoarsely. I catch the controlled emotion in her voice. My 87-year-old aunt, Dad and Uncle Carl's younger sister, is the last remaining sibling. I'm glad Uncle Steve and her strong sons are nearby.
We've not all been to Pittsburgh together since a long ago visit in 1968. At the time I am 13, and Tom and Jeff aren't even born. Mom and Dad board all eight of us on a TWA jet bound for Pittsburgh, our first airplane trip ever. Grouped together in the rear, we enthusiastically explore air vents and overhead lights as Mom, with our baby sister Caroline on her lap, threatens that if we don't settle down, she will "turn this plane around and head right back home". Upon our arrival in Pittsburgh, we squash into two taxi cabs and careen under the hills through the Fort Pitt Tunnel before bursting forth from darkness. Just like that Pittsburgh rises before us - a city of steel, lights, and skyscrapers glowing in the night sky. The great Allegheny River meets the Monongahela to form the majestic Ohio River, and one day soon Uncle Carl will disperse pennies among us to toss into the waters where the rivers meet as one.
Mom and Dad are long gone, but here we are, nearly 40 years later, careening through the same Fort Pitt Tunnel. Abruptly, the skyline appears to conquer the black night with its light studded brilliance, and Uncle Carl feels very near. Our loyal stepmother Kris accompanies us along with our young stepbrother Nolan and his sweet wife Brianne.
Mark, Uncle Carl's roommate for the last four decades and the most important person in his world, meets us at the door of the funeral home. He's a lovely man who composedly greets us and all Uncle Carl's friends. At last we find our adored Aunt Patty and Uncle Steve. Tim, Peter and Kenny, our kind, handsome cousins, are there, too. Brian will arrive tomorrow, but our cousins Stephen and Kevin, like our own siblings Terri, Carry and Jeff, are unable to attend. We long for the missing members of our family - living and dead. Paul Solomon, however, Dad's cousin who always makes us laugh, is thankfully here.
When at last we've caught up with each other's news and all the guests have departed, we stand together to gaze upon the body of our brother and uncle. Aunt Patty, in her wheel chair, sits silently, her great blue eyes brilliant with emotion. Uncle Carl's face is unlined and almost youthful. Only recently has his dark hair finally turned gray. He seems remarkably the same, and I can hardly believe we will never again hear his elegant voice.
Three o'clock happy hours, "Penny Penny, Who's Got the Penny", and Christmas boxes now become cherished childhood memories, and with the passing of Uncle Carl comes the passing of an era. My cousins and siblings and I feel it keenly. For all our lives, Uncle Carl's filled our unremarkable days with light and brilliance and sometimes high drama.
He is like his beloved Pittsburgh - the explosion of light at the end of the tunnel. In an instant, the world glows bright with promise. There are presents to open, operas to perform, plans to be made.
And for a little while, anything is possible.
"I'm still waiting for those names," he calls to scold me one day shortly before Thanksgiving. During one productive year, several of my nieces and nephews have become parents, and I've forgotten my promise to record the names of Uncle Carl's newest great, great nieces and nephews. Uncle Carl's reminded me on three different occasions, and rather than face his wrath, I make up fictitious names for three new babies.
"Why does Uncle Carl think our grandchildren are called Miranda and Kevin?" my brother Rick stares at me accusingly the following Christmas Eve. I've forgotten all about the made up names. Rick laughs out loud at my discomfiture. "You don't even know the names of my grandchildren," he shakes his head.
"Don't tell Uncle Carl," I sigh.
The truth is, Uncle Carl tends to be just a tiny bit controlling. When my sisters and I get married, he kindly offers to make floral arrangements. We don't realize the hefty price to be paid for this generous offer. Uncle Carl not only takes charge of the flowers but everything else besides. Before Deb's wedding, he orders all of us out to the river to collect green foliage for the altar at St. Mary's Cathedral. We have no idea what we're picking. If it's green, we stuff it into giant garbage bags and obediently haul it to the church. Uncle Carl completely ignores the elderly pastor who tells him that under no circumstances are wedding decorations permitted on the altar and, behind the old priest's back, creates a magnificent arch of greenery precisely around the forbidden area. Father is furious when he discovers the arrangement too late and nearly speechless when, during the ceremony, he spies marijuana leaves skillfully woven through the arrangement.
In spite of his high handedness, we never doubt Uncle Carl's devotion to us. He flies from Pennsylvania in a thunderstorm to be with us for our mother's funeral, and twenty years later he rushes to our sides for Dad's. He even comes from Pennsylvania one year for Rick's high school graduation and my college graduation. In all the craziness, our baby brother Jeff, who's just completed kindergarten, is nearly forgotten by everybody except Uncle Carl.
"Da, da da da, DA DA!" Uncle Carl sings out the notes to "Pomp and Circumstance" as Jeff, with grave dignity, marches through the back yard. Uncle Carl throws a party right there, and we all congratulate Jeff on his remarkable achievement.
This coming March, Uncle Carl will turn 90. He's begged us time and time again to visit him in Pittsburgh, and at last I promise him we will come for his 90th. But a few weeks ago, on a warm October afternoon, Aunt Patty calls me from her home in Virginia with sad news. Uncle Carl has died.
"A stroke," she says hoarsely. I catch the controlled emotion in her voice. My 87-year-old aunt, Dad and Uncle Carl's younger sister, is the last remaining sibling. I'm glad Uncle Steve and her strong sons are nearby.
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| Our stepmother Kris Nolan Brown with Aunt Patty Hamer. |
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| The Hamers. From left: Ken, Brian, Uncle Steve, Aunt Patty, Pete and Tim. |
Mom and Dad are long gone, but here we are, nearly 40 years later, careening through the same Fort Pitt Tunnel. Abruptly, the skyline appears to conquer the black night with its light studded brilliance, and Uncle Carl feels very near. Our loyal stepmother Kris accompanies us along with our young stepbrother Nolan and his sweet wife Brianne.
Mark, Uncle Carl's roommate for the last four decades and the most important person in his world, meets us at the door of the funeral home. He's a lovely man who composedly greets us and all Uncle Carl's friends. At last we find our adored Aunt Patty and Uncle Steve. Tim, Peter and Kenny, our kind, handsome cousins, are there, too. Brian will arrive tomorrow, but our cousins Stephen and Kevin, like our own siblings Terri, Carry and Jeff, are unable to attend. We long for the missing members of our family - living and dead. Paul Solomon, however, Dad's cousin who always makes us laugh, is thankfully here.
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| In front of Uncle Carl's Pittsburgh apartment. Bottom row from left: Nolan and Brianne Clare, Brian Hamer. Second row from left: Paul Solomon, Mary Brand, Joe Brown. Top row from left: Ken Hamer, Pete Hamer, Tom Brown, Deb Durning, Rick Brown, Cathy Howard and Mick Brown. |
When at last we've caught up with each other's news and all the guests have departed, we stand together to gaze upon the body of our brother and uncle. Aunt Patty, in her wheel chair, sits silently, her great blue eyes brilliant with emotion. Uncle Carl's face is unlined and almost youthful. Only recently has his dark hair finally turned gray. He seems remarkably the same, and I can hardly believe we will never again hear his elegant voice.
Three o'clock happy hours, "Penny Penny, Who's Got the Penny", and Christmas boxes now become cherished childhood memories, and with the passing of Uncle Carl comes the passing of an era. My cousins and siblings and I feel it keenly. For all our lives, Uncle Carl's filled our unremarkable days with light and brilliance and sometimes high drama.
He is like his beloved Pittsburgh - the explosion of light at the end of the tunnel. In an instant, the world glows bright with promise. There are presents to open, operas to perform, plans to be made.
And for a little while, anything is possible.
