uncles to the left.

I feel like I'm losing uncles left and right these days. Although I have no idea about my late Uncle Freeman's political feelings, I know that I've lost Uncle Cecil to the left.

I barely knew Cecil, mostly on account of the fact that he lived far away in Kansas, plus I was mostly just another little girl that called herself a relative to him because of the fertility of his older sister Louise. Cecil never had any children of his own, though I think he had been married once. I can imagine that he'd be a difficult man to live with.

Cecil was a hoarder. Something would go on sale at the local Dillon's and he'd stock up like the Cold War was still on, which it was at that point. But then he'd just have too much, and he would end up giving it away so he could make room for more stockpiles of supplies. His house was a glorified storage area, with paths going from room to room through all the piles of canned goods and whatnot. I don't remember my mother ever buying shaving cream, because we had a huge supply of Barbasol in the basement, courtesy of Uncle Cecil. It never seemed weird to me to be shaving my legs with men's shaving foam, until I noticed that my friend's legs did not smell like clean-shaven men. Cecil also apparently stocked up on soap once, probably more than once. I don't remember actually using any of those dozens of individually-wrapped soaps for bathing, but I do remember using them to make different kinds of furniture pieces for my Barbie dolls to sit or lie upon. My Barbies had the cleanest and freshest-smelling loveseats in the land.

I think the highlight of our visits to Kansas for Cecil was talking to my dad. Maybe he would have called them discussions or political debates, but they were just bantering. My dad was a staunch Republican and Cecil was a straight-ticket Democrat, so they'd bicker back and forth, making no real points but mostly generalizations and one-liners that they might have borrowed from some pundit. I remember one night of listening to them go at it while the rest of us played cards, half-listening and snickering every time Uncle Cecil talked about President "Boosh." We still don't know who President Boosh is.

My dad and Cecil had a great time, though, and each of them all but ignored the fact that the rest of us were around. Oh, it was harmless fun, but it made my grandmother very nervous. To her, they were having a heated argument, and she hated for people she loved to argue. She would ask, beg, even plead with them to stop, and they would for a little while. But then one of them would make some sly comment to the other and they'd be back at it. We tried to explain to my grandmother that it was all in good fun, but she never could accept that.

Cecil's mind went out before his body did. He had to be put in a home, and his days were filled with finding conspiracies against him. The last time I was in Kansas, we had plans to meet Uncle Cecil for breakfast, but he cancelled on us, because he thought that we'd already met. We were confused and sad, my dad was disappointed, but we left it alone. His living expenses at the home came out of my grandmother's pocket, because though Cecil had the money, he thought the home was stealing from him.

I guess I'm not really going to miss Uncle Cecil. I didn't know him very well, and I'd always thought he was a little crazy. If I were feeling generous, I might describe him as being a "character." But then again, he is my great uncle, and maybe I'm a little crazy, too. Maybe after my death some smart-aleck niece will write about her crazy Aunt Sandra, thinking she has some idea of who I was based only a few token stories told to her about my dotage. It's a shame to have your life judged based on who you are when you die, to have young folks look at you and not know that you used to be completely different, or at least completely the same, but better-looking. Basically, getting old sucks. But as my mother says, it's better than the alternative.

So here's to Uncle Cecil. Here's to getting old and being a little crazy, but at least leaving behind a few good stories.