Uncle Jim's Concrete Life Lessons

by Deborah A. Tremblay
(Watervliet, NY)

177 Fourth Street is the address I call upon whenever I stroll down Memory Lane. I know every line, impression, and print in that pavement as well as I know the landscape of the palm of my hand. On Memory Lane, Uncle Jim’s store still stands.

He was my father’s uncle; I was his great niece. In my mind, he and the building that housed his newsroom can never be separated. Both stood tall and proud, were strong in structure and sturdy in frame; and both provided shelter for me. That old two-story brownstone itself told two stories; one of a stoic son of Italy who lived above his store, where he provided for an elderly mother who spoke no English; the other of a fatherly man whose strong, quiet faith was communicated through the simple experiences we shared. He taught me many life lessons in a language that my child’s heart could easily understand.

We lived directly across the street from him. My bedroom window looked down upon his store. Once, my parents punished me by sending me into my room. I saw Uncle Jim outside below, speaking to a friend. I banged on the window and shouted, “Uncle Jim! Come get me!” He immediately bolted across the street to my rescue, carrying me with him over to the store. I still remember the crinkles in his forehead when he heard my cry; and the surprised expressions of my parents as he whisked me away.

Uncle Jim kept a small stool for me behind the candy counter, next to the cash register, where I would perch to read comic books, draw, or write. He kept a box of pencils behind the counter and sold them for a penny each. I regularly snapped them, wore down the erasers, and nibbled on them before returning them to the box. But he never grew angry, just replaced them after each of my visits. Perhaps he saw the potential for a writer in me, and knew my deeds had a point.

Many of his customers spoke Italian. I understood very little. Whenever they spoke to me, Uncle Jim would bow down and whisper the appropriate Italian responses for me to repeat back. He would never have let me be an outsider to any conversation. These lessons taught me that I belonged.

Like Jesus, my uncle was a carpenter. In his workroom, he often gave me some wood, a few small nails and a little tack hammer so I could work too. He never suggested that girls shouldn’t do such things. It hammered home to me that I could do anything I chose to do, and I have always measured my dreams by that yardstick.

Once he carved a toy fishing pole for me and attached a line. I sat on the front step of the store, imagining it was a boat, and pretended to fish on the concrete, my sidewalk sea. Looking back, I realize Uncle Jim’s love was concrete. Like initials carved into wet cement, these experiences left their impression, solidifying over time.

Today, my imagination grips the store’s worn brass doorknob and squeezes down, unlocking memories. Suddenly, I am a small child again. I can skip across the slatted wood floor and rush to my great uncle again. He is warmth in a wool sweater with leather arm patches; strength in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers; stability in a pair of polished wing tips. Not only did he cloak me in security, he vested me with well-suited lessons that have never faded throughout my life.

The real story of my great uncle’s life was told with his hands. As a boy, he shined shoes to help his family, often earning a man’s pay. His parents wanted him to study the violin. He preferred amateur boxing. When they finally threw in the towel and agreed that he could stop playing the violin after 14 years, he never picked one up again. Instead, he went on to earn numerous boxing belts, medals, and ribbons.

His hands patiently and meticulously crafted furniture. The music of his saw across wood filled the room. After work, he’d wash his hands in the basin in the back of the store. He always used Lava® soap; it was strong and gritty, like him. To this day whenever I smell Lava®, feelings of safety and happiness wash over me.

His hands were large, his reach expansive; everyone who knew him felt his touch. His hands were gentlemanly; whether tipping his fedora, or holding the door at mass for a lady. His hands were generous, always giving; handing my struggling parents money or an armload of groceries for their four young kids. On our walks through the city, he’d offered me his finger to hold. My fingers encircled it like a glove. It was a perfect fit. We held hands that way on every walk we took until the day he died.

Thank you, Lord, for showing your Fatherly love through Uncle Jim's hands.

Those hands, now at rest, did their job well. Yet they have never waved goodbye to me. Uncle Jim isn’t really gone--from the window of my heart, he will always be just within view, just across the way, just beyond the door, at 177 Fourth Street, on Memory Lane. Waiting for me to call.