Thank you both for the kind words. Uncle Alfred was so very much like my dad that it was a little bit like seeing dad again in his coffin. I wish I could say we were very close, but that wouldn't be honest and it's my fault. I passed his road dozens of times and told myself I would visit him soon as I could slow down just a bit. Unfortunately, the only times I went to his house in the last nine years was three times. Guilt is a hurtfull thing. Truth is I was a little ashamed to face him because I dissappointed him. Thirteen years ago, he invited me to join his masonic organization, something I had longed for for some three decades, but you can't just go join them, you have to wait until someone invites you. I started my lessons and went some months into the training when my first wife learned that her cancer was terminal. I stopped the lessons to spend time with her and after her death I just never started back. Uncle Alfred was so happy I was going to be a Mason just like my dad and I let him down.
He was a happy go lucky, jolly character with a heart of gold. He loved a good laugh and it took very little to make him laugh long and loud and most sincerely. He served as a Deacon in the church he was a charter member of and left a son and two daughters that any father would be extremely proud of. He helped many people in many ways. He had little education but a great deal of wisdom. People came to him for advice and council almost as if he was a Pastor or a business advisor. Until after he passed away, little was known about the many times he helped people financially, for he always insisted on his help being kept secret, lest he should become proud or boastful. He served in the second World War. He lived a little more than 88 years.
I remember a time when I was about 5 years old. My dad's 88 acre place was just across a hollow from Uncle Alfred's land and home. We would walk down a trail thru the woods, cross a foot log and up the next hill to Uncle Alfred's to visit. On one such visit, I was playing with a new toy my cousin had, a bright red metal truck about three inches long. When we had to leave I stuffed it in my jacket pocket and took it home. When dad discovered me playing with it and realized I had stolen it, he made me take it home and return it. It was night and I had to go alone. I remember the hoot owls and the movements in the undergrowth and remembered the stories of Panthers that had been heard in the area. Uncle Alfred understood dad's reasons for giving me such freightening punishment but he insisted he would walk me home. We met dad halfway and realized I hadn't been alone at all. Dad had followed me all the way to look out for me. I never stole anything again after that, but I also learned to overcome my fear of the dark woods.
The last time I saw him alive was when Pidder and I dropped in on him and my Aunt three months ago. He had dementia and we had heard he often didn't recognize people. He had no trouble knowing who I was and we had a wonderful visit, although he asked me at least 4 times what I was doing for a living these days. He could remember things that happened long ago but the last hour or so was a blur. I told him how I missed him and how much he meant to me. I'm glad I did that, but I'm sorry I didn't show it by seeing him more often.
Thanks for listening. I sometimes find solace in talking it out.