In Memory of My Uncle Wodie
Talking in a comment to digdigil about the song "You Are My Sunshine" made me think about my uncle Wodie. And thinking about my uncle Wodie made me realize that he's been gone for ten years, yesterday.
His name was Walter Szczerbicki, but that was not the sort of name a small child could wrap her tongue around. And so to me, he was always uncle Wodie.
How was he related to me? No one knows. The woman who kept track of those sorts of things had died, and no one else remembered. A third cousin, perhaps? That's what I told people, for people always wanted a convenient, compartmentalized answer: "Is he your grandfather? Your uncle?" Simply being my "uncle Wodie" was not enough for them; their labels--grandfather, uncle, cousin--were not enough for me.
He'd lived with my dad for many years, although I do not know why. And until March 19, 1996, he lived with my sister in me, in the middle bedroom of the second floor, in the room next to mine. Uncle Wodie was a part of our lives that was not questioned; indeed, it was mildly surprising to discover that other children did not have uncle Wodies. That my family was the strange one was never questioned.
He was never married, and he had no children. His social circle consisted of his siblings and my grandparents...and my sister and me. Or so we assumed, with the self-importance of small children certain that they are the center of the universe. And uncle Wodie made us believe that we were where our parents--fond of admonishing us for not wishing to spend summer evenings sitting in a restaurant for hours while they drank coffee and smoked cigarettes--did not. It was uncle Wodie who took us to the playground and the movies and McDonalds. It was uncle Wodie whom we begged when we wanted to stay home at night and not go to the restaurant, when we wanted to get snowballs, catch fireflies, and playing camping in the back of his station wagon, which he affectionately named in Polish meaning "piece of junk," a car that I can see, feel, and smell to this day like no other.
While uncle Wodie was living, he was an assumed part of my life, like a parent. He was supposed to be there; he was supposed to treat my sister and I with the unwavering generosity and selflessness that he did. Never mind that our parents did not; uncle Wodie did, and I realize now--when pondering how lonely a childhood I would have had without him--that I took that for granted.
I never thanked him.
There was a computer commercial a few months ago for a service called "Help Desk." I don't remember the company, but I remember the little old man and his small box with the invention so great that everyone was going to want one. That man was uncle Wodie, in his looks and his mannerisms and everything. I would laugh as I saw the commercial, even as I wanted to cry.
Uncle Wodie would open my door while I was reading or writing and place on the corner of my desk a Hershey's miniature. He'd never say anything, just leave it there and close the door. Almost every day, he did this. Sometimes, I ate the candy. Sometimes, I saved it for later.
When I moved a year-and-a-half ago, I still had some of them tucked away in my desk. "Dawn! I'm surprised you didn't get ants!" my mom had exclaimed, and I'd said, "But mom, uncle Wodie gave them to me."
He died when I was fourteen years old. He was the first person close to me to die. I have since seen three grandparents, two grandmothers-in-law, and a childhood friend die, yet none were as hard as uncle Wodie.
He collapsed in the rehabilitation home where he was recovering from bypass surgery in the arteries in his legs and never woke up. I made the mistake of going to the hospital to see him, the night before he died, and I wish I hadn't because I will remember that forever, and the memory is such that I will never put it into words. I never could. I would never want to.
I'd rather remember him reading the newspaper at the kitchen table with the news on the tiny TV set, listening to the sound through headphones. Still, he'd had to turn the volume up so loud that I could hear the crackle of the headphones upstairs in my room. Or uncle Wodie mashing down our snowballs at the rustic snowball stand down the street. Or uncle Wodie leaving candies on the corner of my desk for no reason at all.
Thank you, uncle Wodie.
His name was Walter Szczerbicki, but that was not the sort of name a small child could wrap her tongue around. And so to me, he was always uncle Wodie.
How was he related to me? No one knows. The woman who kept track of those sorts of things had died, and no one else remembered. A third cousin, perhaps? That's what I told people, for people always wanted a convenient, compartmentalized answer: "Is he your grandfather? Your uncle?" Simply being my "uncle Wodie" was not enough for them; their labels--grandfather, uncle, cousin--were not enough for me.
He'd lived with my dad for many years, although I do not know why. And until March 19, 1996, he lived with my sister in me, in the middle bedroom of the second floor, in the room next to mine. Uncle Wodie was a part of our lives that was not questioned; indeed, it was mildly surprising to discover that other children did not have uncle Wodies. That my family was the strange one was never questioned.
He was never married, and he had no children. His social circle consisted of his siblings and my grandparents...and my sister and me. Or so we assumed, with the self-importance of small children certain that they are the center of the universe. And uncle Wodie made us believe that we were where our parents--fond of admonishing us for not wishing to spend summer evenings sitting in a restaurant for hours while they drank coffee and smoked cigarettes--did not. It was uncle Wodie who took us to the playground and the movies and McDonalds. It was uncle Wodie whom we begged when we wanted to stay home at night and not go to the restaurant, when we wanted to get snowballs, catch fireflies, and playing camping in the back of his station wagon, which he affectionately named in Polish meaning "piece of junk," a car that I can see, feel, and smell to this day like no other.
While uncle Wodie was living, he was an assumed part of my life, like a parent. He was supposed to be there; he was supposed to treat my sister and I with the unwavering generosity and selflessness that he did. Never mind that our parents did not; uncle Wodie did, and I realize now--when pondering how lonely a childhood I would have had without him--that I took that for granted.
I never thanked him.
There was a computer commercial a few months ago for a service called "Help Desk." I don't remember the company, but I remember the little old man and his small box with the invention so great that everyone was going to want one. That man was uncle Wodie, in his looks and his mannerisms and everything. I would laugh as I saw the commercial, even as I wanted to cry.
Uncle Wodie would open my door while I was reading or writing and place on the corner of my desk a Hershey's miniature. He'd never say anything, just leave it there and close the door. Almost every day, he did this. Sometimes, I ate the candy. Sometimes, I saved it for later.
When I moved a year-and-a-half ago, I still had some of them tucked away in my desk. "Dawn! I'm surprised you didn't get ants!" my mom had exclaimed, and I'd said, "But mom, uncle Wodie gave them to me."
He died when I was fourteen years old. He was the first person close to me to die. I have since seen three grandparents, two grandmothers-in-law, and a childhood friend die, yet none were as hard as uncle Wodie.
He collapsed in the rehabilitation home where he was recovering from bypass surgery in the arteries in his legs and never woke up. I made the mistake of going to the hospital to see him, the night before he died, and I wish I hadn't because I will remember that forever, and the memory is such that I will never put it into words. I never could. I would never want to.
I'd rather remember him reading the newspaper at the kitchen table with the news on the tiny TV set, listening to the sound through headphones. Still, he'd had to turn the volume up so loud that I could hear the crackle of the headphones upstairs in my room. Or uncle Wodie mashing down our snowballs at the rustic snowball stand down the street. Or uncle Wodie leaving candies on the corner of my desk for no reason at all.
Thank you, uncle Wodie.