If you’ve known me at any point since I was in kindergarten, when my Aunt Archer got married, then you’ve either met my Uncle Jack, or heard me tell a story about him. I wanted to let you all know that he died this past Monday, and to say a little about him.
Jack was what my advice columnist would call “a character with a capital C.” When I first read that phrase, I thought immediately of him. He was someone people actually liked buying gifts for. I imagine that for years, there have been people browsing stores in July and coming across a Christmas gift that would be perfect for Jack. And then finding another one in August. And September … etc. The house is full of these gifts.
The painted goose eggs he and Archer bought with me in Ukraine are not sitting on their own, but stuck between fifteen or twenty other painted eggs from various countries, in a display case near the front door. This might seem like something you’d notice, but I guarantee most people walk right by it. Between the family photos, paintings, woodcuts, brightly colored paintings from Latin America, tiles, wooden baskets, prints, posters and clocks – they’re almost invisible. And that’s just what’s on the walls.
Some of the gifts and souvenirs allude to his Main Interests: nature (especially reptiles and insects) and old cars. Sub-Interests included clocks, Germany and music. The rest is anyone’s guess. A book that someone thought he would like, or a placard with a funny message. When he retired, his coworkers gave him a customized chore wheel: along with “Mow Lawn” and all the normal chores, they added “Call Friends at Estes” (where they worked), and “Go Herpin’.”
However, his interests – and his bizarre degree of expertise in all of them – were not what made him a Character. Yes, anyone who has seven “work in progress” cars in the driveway is automatically a bit of a character. But the people we’d meet out and about didn’t know about the cars. They just knew he was a guy who made them laugh about fifteen seconds after setting eyes on him.
The waiter who would stare blankly after Jack told him to not worry – our Domino’s order would be here soon. The Kenyan waitress who threw up her hands in excitement when he told her “Thank you” in Swahili. My freshman hall-mate who couldn’t walk by us before he stopped her to make sure that yes, those were dimples he saw when she smiled. My cab driver in Ukraine who didn’t know what Jack had said, but knew it had something to do with Monica Lewinsky. All the people who started out as strangers but became life-long friends – who filled the banquet tables at his 70th birthday party this past July. The Italian chef who fed us at that party – who wouldn’t let us go with anything less than five massive courses.
When we went to see “Spy Games,” the theater was so crowded that everyone but my mom and I had to sit alone. When the lights came back on, we all found each other – except for Jack, who was still talking to the person next to him.
My memories of his one-liners include:
The time at my Aunt Bessie’s when Archer told my dad (in her Richmond accent) to “sit on the sofa.” My dad (from New York) said sarcastically, “What’s a sofar?” Jack: “One who or that which SOFES – God, Bob, don’t you know your vocabulary?”
That time I was forcing him and Archer to look at my scrapbook from freshman year of college, and telling them about the group I tutored for – “Project Phoenix.” Jack: “Oh, I’ve heard of that group.” Me: “Really??” Jack: “Yes, to help people with phoenix envy.”
Him telling a science teacher at my high school graduation party – after they’d been talking about snakes or something – “I haven’t had this much fun since I found out you could have sex with other people.”
Him coming up behind my cousin in a grocery store and grabbing her purse strap. She calmly turned around, unflappable – only to have him accuse her of only marrying Thomas DiStanislao for the last name.
At happy hour at my grandma’s old apartment, when one of her friends began hilariously berating her twin sister for letting her skirt ride above her knees. The sister retorted, “I know! I’m trying to cover up with a napkin!” and Jack cried, “No! Why do you think I sat across from you?”
At the dinner table, almost every time we said the Moravian blessing, him replacing “And keep them in thy tender care” with “And keep me out of Archer’s hair” – to the point where we could barely get through the prayer, whether he said it that time or not.
… just remembered that one. I will miss that one.
Being in his house – with all the aforementioned art and tchotchkes every single direction you look – is like having a megaphone shouting his name. I am having trouble getting used to being here without hearing him yelling “Arch?” from one side of the house, and my aunt yelling “Jack?” from the other, and him yelling “Yo!” There’s a clock that makes different frog sounds, on the hour. Almost everyone who’s come to visit this week fits into the category of “bug friend,” “snake friend,” or “car friend.” Everyone feels like he was their dad, or brother.
My teeth have been bothering me, and it’s weird to be here feeling remotely ill without him falling all over himself to tend to me: giving me tea with lots of honey, or asking the waitress at our restaurant if she or any other employee there had allergy medicine. He would stop all the clocks at night so they wouldn’t keep me up when I slept on the pull-out couch. The other night, we had some trouble figuring out how some of them stopped.
He finally broke my habit of addressing him as “Uncle Jack” after years of responding with “Yes, Niece Virginia?” He occasionally addressed me as “N.V.” in e-mails. On Monday morning, he sent us a video of Bach played on a 10-string guitar, which I still haven’t watched. He and my aunt called my mom to sing Happy Birthday.
When my parents called me later to tell me what happened, I had what I’m sure is a typical reaction of disbelief. Because I was near a computer, I thought, “No – that’s not right – if I just e-mail him really quick he’ll still get it.” I had the feeling that if I only moved quickly enough, I could make it happen.
The night before his 70th birthday, when I was last here, he was telling stories and I was being a bad listener by admitting to having heard most of them before. Before I went to bed, I imitated Zach Galifianakis’s impression of a gay snake for him.
I don’t know anything about snakes or turtles or cars. I have repeatedly told him that if it doesn’t have fur and four legs, I don’t want it as a pet. I think convertibles are too dangerous. I don’t know what different plants are. But we never ran out of things to talk about.
I really want to talk to him now. I know everyone else feels that way too. It’s hard not to focus on the plans I had that this screws up. The plans didn’t necessarily revolve around him, but he was supposed to be there. I was going to have everyone over at Christmas to see the artificial tree I was really excited about buying. Eventually, he was supposed to take me on one of his Costa Rica trips – or at least he told me once that he would. I wanted him to see other good stuff happen to me – stuff I knew he wanted to happen to me.
He frequently said that he had lived longer than he thought he would. I thought I could will him to live even longer. I know he was sick, and my aunt is right that this gets him out of a lot of miserable cancer treatments he was not happy about facing. She is absolutely right that he died doing what he loved doing, and that that is how he would have wanted it.
As with most surreal situations, I occasionally have the feeling that I could opt out of this if I wanted to. As in, “This is interesting, and I’m sure it’s a learning experience, but it’s not for me, thanks.”
The memorial service is on Saturday, and the priest who married them will officiate. The point of that is to remind us that we believe he’s in a better place now. And that we believe he will get to see my dinky Christmas tree. That he’ll be there with us for milestones big and small.
Right now, sitting in this house makes me feel like he’ll come through the door at any minute. But that other kind of presence – the one we’ll have even when we remember he’s not coming through the door – is harder to wrap our heads around. Right now it still feels like something I can opt out of considering. Not the kind of presence I prefer, thanks. But the kind of presence I get to have isn’t up to me. All I can do is pray that I’ll feel it.
Goodbye, Uncle Jack. I love you.
- Niece Virginia
Information on the memorial service for Jack Redmond at Bennett Funeral Home in Richmond is here: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/timesdispatch/obituary.aspx?pid=160257708#fbLoggedOut
Jack was what my advice columnist would call “a character with a capital C.” When I first read that phrase, I thought immediately of him. He was someone people actually liked buying gifts for. I imagine that for years, there have been people browsing stores in July and coming across a Christmas gift that would be perfect for Jack. And then finding another one in August. And September … etc. The house is full of these gifts.
The painted goose eggs he and Archer bought with me in Ukraine are not sitting on their own, but stuck between fifteen or twenty other painted eggs from various countries, in a display case near the front door. This might seem like something you’d notice, but I guarantee most people walk right by it. Between the family photos, paintings, woodcuts, brightly colored paintings from Latin America, tiles, wooden baskets, prints, posters and clocks – they’re almost invisible. And that’s just what’s on the walls.
Some of the gifts and souvenirs allude to his Main Interests: nature (especially reptiles and insects) and old cars. Sub-Interests included clocks, Germany and music. The rest is anyone’s guess. A book that someone thought he would like, or a placard with a funny message. When he retired, his coworkers gave him a customized chore wheel: along with “Mow Lawn” and all the normal chores, they added “Call Friends at Estes” (where they worked), and “Go Herpin’.”
However, his interests – and his bizarre degree of expertise in all of them – were not what made him a Character. Yes, anyone who has seven “work in progress” cars in the driveway is automatically a bit of a character. But the people we’d meet out and about didn’t know about the cars. They just knew he was a guy who made them laugh about fifteen seconds after setting eyes on him.
The waiter who would stare blankly after Jack told him to not worry – our Domino’s order would be here soon. The Kenyan waitress who threw up her hands in excitement when he told her “Thank you” in Swahili. My freshman hall-mate who couldn’t walk by us before he stopped her to make sure that yes, those were dimples he saw when she smiled. My cab driver in Ukraine who didn’t know what Jack had said, but knew it had something to do with Monica Lewinsky. All the people who started out as strangers but became life-long friends – who filled the banquet tables at his 70th birthday party this past July. The Italian chef who fed us at that party – who wouldn’t let us go with anything less than five massive courses.
When we went to see “Spy Games,” the theater was so crowded that everyone but my mom and I had to sit alone. When the lights came back on, we all found each other – except for Jack, who was still talking to the person next to him.
My memories of his one-liners include:
The time at my Aunt Bessie’s when Archer told my dad (in her Richmond accent) to “sit on the sofa.” My dad (from New York) said sarcastically, “What’s a sofar?” Jack: “One who or that which SOFES – God, Bob, don’t you know your vocabulary?”
That time I was forcing him and Archer to look at my scrapbook from freshman year of college, and telling them about the group I tutored for – “Project Phoenix.” Jack: “Oh, I’ve heard of that group.” Me: “Really??” Jack: “Yes, to help people with phoenix envy.”
Him telling a science teacher at my high school graduation party – after they’d been talking about snakes or something – “I haven’t had this much fun since I found out you could have sex with other people.”
Him coming up behind my cousin in a grocery store and grabbing her purse strap. She calmly turned around, unflappable – only to have him accuse her of only marrying Thomas DiStanislao for the last name.
At happy hour at my grandma’s old apartment, when one of her friends began hilariously berating her twin sister for letting her skirt ride above her knees. The sister retorted, “I know! I’m trying to cover up with a napkin!” and Jack cried, “No! Why do you think I sat across from you?”
At the dinner table, almost every time we said the Moravian blessing, him replacing “And keep them in thy tender care” with “And keep me out of Archer’s hair” – to the point where we could barely get through the prayer, whether he said it that time or not.
… just remembered that one. I will miss that one.
Being in his house – with all the aforementioned art and tchotchkes every single direction you look – is like having a megaphone shouting his name. I am having trouble getting used to being here without hearing him yelling “Arch?” from one side of the house, and my aunt yelling “Jack?” from the other, and him yelling “Yo!” There’s a clock that makes different frog sounds, on the hour. Almost everyone who’s come to visit this week fits into the category of “bug friend,” “snake friend,” or “car friend.” Everyone feels like he was their dad, or brother.
My teeth have been bothering me, and it’s weird to be here feeling remotely ill without him falling all over himself to tend to me: giving me tea with lots of honey, or asking the waitress at our restaurant if she or any other employee there had allergy medicine. He would stop all the clocks at night so they wouldn’t keep me up when I slept on the pull-out couch. The other night, we had some trouble figuring out how some of them stopped.
He finally broke my habit of addressing him as “Uncle Jack” after years of responding with “Yes, Niece Virginia?” He occasionally addressed me as “N.V.” in e-mails. On Monday morning, he sent us a video of Bach played on a 10-string guitar, which I still haven’t watched. He and my aunt called my mom to sing Happy Birthday.
When my parents called me later to tell me what happened, I had what I’m sure is a typical reaction of disbelief. Because I was near a computer, I thought, “No – that’s not right – if I just e-mail him really quick he’ll still get it.” I had the feeling that if I only moved quickly enough, I could make it happen.
The night before his 70th birthday, when I was last here, he was telling stories and I was being a bad listener by admitting to having heard most of them before. Before I went to bed, I imitated Zach Galifianakis’s impression of a gay snake for him.
I don’t know anything about snakes or turtles or cars. I have repeatedly told him that if it doesn’t have fur and four legs, I don’t want it as a pet. I think convertibles are too dangerous. I don’t know what different plants are. But we never ran out of things to talk about.
I really want to talk to him now. I know everyone else feels that way too. It’s hard not to focus on the plans I had that this screws up. The plans didn’t necessarily revolve around him, but he was supposed to be there. I was going to have everyone over at Christmas to see the artificial tree I was really excited about buying. Eventually, he was supposed to take me on one of his Costa Rica trips – or at least he told me once that he would. I wanted him to see other good stuff happen to me – stuff I knew he wanted to happen to me.
He frequently said that he had lived longer than he thought he would. I thought I could will him to live even longer. I know he was sick, and my aunt is right that this gets him out of a lot of miserable cancer treatments he was not happy about facing. She is absolutely right that he died doing what he loved doing, and that that is how he would have wanted it.
As with most surreal situations, I occasionally have the feeling that I could opt out of this if I wanted to. As in, “This is interesting, and I’m sure it’s a learning experience, but it’s not for me, thanks.”
The memorial service is on Saturday, and the priest who married them will officiate. The point of that is to remind us that we believe he’s in a better place now. And that we believe he will get to see my dinky Christmas tree. That he’ll be there with us for milestones big and small.
Right now, sitting in this house makes me feel like he’ll come through the door at any minute. But that other kind of presence – the one we’ll have even when we remember he’s not coming through the door – is harder to wrap our heads around. Right now it still feels like something I can opt out of considering. Not the kind of presence I prefer, thanks. But the kind of presence I get to have isn’t up to me. All I can do is pray that I’ll feel it.
Goodbye, Uncle Jack. I love you.
- Niece Virginia
Information on the memorial service for Jack Redmond at Bennett Funeral Home in Richmond is here: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/timesdispatch/obituary.aspx?pid=160257708#fbLoggedOut
Archer and Jack, visiting me in Ireland
Archer and Jack at my friend's graduation party for W&M, with my sister Heather
Archer and Jack visiting me in Ukraine
