Remembering Uncle Jimmy

My mother called today sometime between meetings for CIT BK Monitoring and BoA Pending Purchase Process. I hadn't spoken to her in a while, and I didn't know when I'd have a chance again so I flipped open the phone and answered.

Hello. How are you? Good, how are you? The niceties of the conversation concluded, my mother paused. Uncle Jimmy passed away she said.

Great Uncle Jimmy, to be exact. I can't say that I was particularly close to him. I saw him on holidays and for special occasions. The last time I saw him? I think it was at my brother's wedding in 2005. When Ciocia Stasha was still alive. That's Aunt Stella for all you non-Pollocks.

Jimmy Burns. Of Irish heritage. Born in the mid-1910s. I don't know much about his childhood; I don't even know where he grew up, though my guess would be southern Connecticut. I do know that he attended school at St. Thomas Seminary. But, that was rather common back in his day; there were significantly more people involved in the Catholic formation process back then.

He wasn't priest material. Instead, he worked and concentrated on his voice. I regret that I didn't get to hear his enjoyable tenor tone, at least in his prime. According to my grandparents, he had a beautiful voice. Oh, and he was a clothes horse. As long as I knew him, he always dressed... dapperly. (Is that a word? Had to look it up. It is.)

He got married. Well, that's how I'm related to him. He met the second to youngest Podgorski girl, named Estelle, and married her in the late 50s. They had two children, Greg and Donna.

That catches you up with as much as I know about his history.

I met him in 1977. Or I suppose I should say that he met me first since I had no idea what was going on at that point. As I said previously, I saw Uncle Jimmy on holidays. Christmas and Easter to be exact. The family would converge on my grandparents' house. Uncle Henry. Ciocia Manya (Aunt Mary) and Uncle Johnny. Uncle Jimmy and Ciocia Stasha. Greg and Donna and Donna's date. Grandpa and Babcia. Uncle Mark. Uncle Dennis from time to time. Great Grandma. Mom, Dad, Richard. A full house to say the least.

When I think of Uncle Jimmy, I think of a bleach-white skinny bald-headed man with a unique voice and an opinion about everything. From football to politics to walking down the street, you knew the conversation wasn't quite finished unless he'd had his two cents.

Strangely, though, that's not how I'll remember Uncle Jimmy. Not for his music as many will. Not for his opinions. Not for his clothes. Not for the fact that he scared everyone to death driving his boat of a car into his 90s. No, what I'll remember is the post-holiday dinner lull. The men retired to the den to watch football for Christmas or golf for Easter. The women crowded into the kitchen to squawk and clean. And we kids would find something to pass the time.

But Uncle Jimmy would move from the dinner table to the living room couch where he would take an afternoon nap. Shh, everyone said, Uncle Jimmy's sleeping. To be honest, I don't think anything could have disturbed him as he sat there on the couch with his eyes closed. The most peaceful I'd seen him.

The last time I saw him? At my brother's wedding, as I said. It wasn't a remarkable meeting. I most likely shook his hand and exchanged a few pleasantries. Told him about Seattle. He retold a story or two. And that was it. Now, I hope he is at peace after a long, full life.

Goodbye Uncle Jimmy...