Isms: Views on life in rural America

My Uncle Paul left this earth about 10 days ago. He was an entertaining character who loved his family and always had a knack for making people laugh.

I was asked to speak at his funeral. My Aunt Deanna tells me he loved this column. He told me that, too. Uncle, this one’s about you.

I read two statements this week that hit home. The first one said, “An auntie and her first-born niece will always have an unbreakable bond. I know it’s true. Ask my aunties, I’m their favorite “Hey, will you run to the grocery store and pick up another bottle of FWP on your way here?” Right, Deanna, Ginny, Lorine and Joyce?

I like to think it’s the same with an uncle and his first-born niece. While I may not have always told Paul all my deep and colorful secrets, I always knew I could count on level-headed advice told with a lot of humor. I love that.

The second piece I read is a poem by Sarah Ryan, titled “Find Me There.” The two sentences pack a punch. Sarah writes, “There are no more memories in the making. So, when you let me talk about the ones I’ve lost, you are letting me spend time with them in the only way I can now.”

That’s my goal today, to spend time with Paul, sharing memories in the only way I am able.

I’m certain before Paul joined the Fields family, he spent a lot of time at the family farm. One of my first memories is when I was fa flower girl at his wedding. Now, when you’re that age - and that was what, 60 years ago - the last thing you want to do is stand next to a boy who’s holding the rings. I’m fairly certain I made that point known. But I did it, because Uncle Paul promised there would be cake after the ceremony. Good bribe.

A lot of memories center around the family farm. It was the gathering place for holidays, where we’d crowd round the dining room table to play Monopoly, it’s the spot where I learned how to play 10-point pitch. There were times when we - meaning Joyce, Laurie and I - wanted to ride the horses. Paul would come down to the pen, bridle them and let us go. There were softball games on the Fourth of July, Memorial Day picnics and Thanksgiving meals shared around the table and TV, watching the Huskers. Who can forget the whooping and hollering in 1971 when Jeff Kinney punched it in from two yards out to give the Huskers a win in the game of the century.

There are Neligh memories, too, from the years they lived there. I always thought Deanna made the sugar popcorn we’d take to the drive-in movie, but I have a sneaking suspicion Paul may have had a hand in the process.

And, there are definitely a lot of Kearney memories, from the green (or I think it was that shade) apartment a block off Second Avenue, to the yellow house on a street I can’t remember the name of - but I do remember the bar in the basement - to the country house where he lived out his days, with Deanna, the boys, the horses and several dogs who were his constant companions.

I remember a specific fishing trip to the pits here in Kearney. My dad brought a fishing pole - maybe even a tackle box - he kept tucked away in the basement at home and watched, while Uncle Paul helped us cast lines. I don’t remember if we caught anything, but I remember the laughter and fun, good times spent with family.

Another specific moment I will never forget involves Brian. I lived in Norfolk at the time. We’d been out the evening before and enjoyed a drink or two. The next day, we ventured to Tilden, and as we were turning the corner to head to our grandparents’ house, we met Paul. He was headed for the Weibel place and we stopped to talk. First thing he says is, “Were you drinking last night? You don’t look so good.” He chuckled. “Pull down your sunglasses and let me look at those eyes.” So I did. His response: “When are you two every gonna learn.”

One of these days, Uncle, one of these days.

Paul had his ornery side too. Like the time in Winona, at Ginny and Dan’s anniversary party, when Uncle Mike played mixologist. I’d tell the rest of the story, but…what happens in Winona, stays in Winona.

I always thought young Uncle Paul resembled a young Clint Eastwood, especially from his Rawhide days. Maybe it was the jet black hair or the tall, lanky frame. I’m not sure which. Sometime, over the years, my Rowdy Yates lookalike uncle turned into a vision of the Marlboro Man, someone straight from the old west, a cowboy you’d want in your corner. Some time later, he became a mountain man, who loved cast-iron cooking and shared his love of history and genealogy. He could weave stories like the best storytellers and I could listen forever.

Those days have past, but if I close my eyes, I can hear him talking politics, and sports, and about the people and places from the past. And that’s what I’m going to hold on to, the times when life was a little less complicated and old age seemed so far away. And I’m going to imagine that as Paul left this earth, he trotted off on a jet black quarter horse into an amazing sunset, turned and said, “It’s been a great life.”