My Dad's Uncle

I was driving back from my boyfriend’s flat. My window was open, a nice breeze was drifting into my car. It had been raining for most of the evening, and there was a damp, fresh kind of smell in the air. It was dark, around 11pm, and mine was the only car twisting along the country roads. There was something very pleasing about it all. Rain was evaporating from the roads, which looked pretty eerie. It looked like the road was steaming. Usually these long drives home from Oxford are tedious and boring, and I can’t wait to be home. But that night I was struck with a very strange feeling of peace, and for some bizarre, reason, I began to cry. Ok, so that’s quite pathetic. But wait, it gets worse. I began thinking about the recently deceased uncle of my dad, and how he would never again experience a night like this, and the crying got worse.

My dad’s uncle was 79, and grumpy. In fact, I’d never had a proper conversation with him. He was always the one at family get togethers snoozing in the corner, or complaining about something, or smoking with his gnarled arthritic hands. I knew he was a good man with a strong moral backbone, but with age and the pain of an aging body he had developed a rather hard, tough exterior.

But then he died, collapsing at the bottom of his staircase, with one arm in his winter jacket, about to delivery Christmas cards. It was only then I became oddly fascinated with him. We have all his photos at my house. We have to keep them safe, and not let the life of my dad’s uncle disappear into obscurity. There are photos of my dad when he was a baby, photos dating back to the 1930s, photos documenting a life full of travel – Mediterranean cruises, Egyptian tombs, African Safaris – there’s even a picture of me when I was about 6, at a wedding that I don’t even remember going to. It’s all very fascinating, being able to look into this person’s life, and discovering all these things I never knew.

My dad’s uncle lead a very full life.

Excuse the very random topic. My memory is terrible, and if I don’t document all these little things I will forget them.