What a life!
There was something about Uncle Cliff that made me want to be around him. I remember as a little boy being eager to see him whenever he would come up to my Grandma Shaw’s house to help my father with a project. Or being excited to see him when dad would have me tag along with him to aunt Sharon’s house and he was there. There was something about him. A twinkle in his eye. A smile in the tone of his gravely voice when he’d say “Hi Frank.”
Being around him and my father as a youngster seemed like I was sitting in another era. A time when old cowboys roamed the countryside. Listening to their stories (never were any actual cowboy or old west related) took me back to when they were younger men. I didn’t fully comprehend the tales, which may have been for the best, but I listened eagerly. I’d watch him and my dad work as well. Pitching in when I could. It wasn’t often that Uncle Cliff and dad would work on a project together. But it seemed the two of them could work circles around a dozen men half their age. I don’t hold an unlit candle in comparison to either man. Uncle Cliff seemed like a work horse. Unrelenting and thorough. Eager to get the job done, but not to the point of wearing himself out before he was close to finishing.
It wasn’t a common thing. At least it wasn’t common for me to be around them both while they talked and discussed bygone eras. I came at the end of everything. An epilogue to a generation that have now reached reached their 50’s while I tag along in the distance near their children’s ages. I missed out getting know some of my aunts and uncles and cousins in the same way as my siblings because of it, but it didn’t matter with Uncle Cliff. I think the reason I wanted to be around him is because he made you feel like he wanted you around.
There was also the horseshoes. Or the Shaw Reunion horseshoe tournament that was held every year at least. I was always excited to watch Uncle Cliff play. I heard this and that about his abilities. He had played in many tournaments, and there were times the man seemed like a wizard with the horse shoes. He had a knack for floating the shoes in around the post.
“ding” “ding”
Ringer after ringer. It was uncanny. He wasn’t perfect. He had his off years certainly. But I think he was by far on more winning teams than he was on losing teams. Or at least on the team that took second place. He seem nonplussed by all of it. He would jokingly scoff at us for bragging him up like we did. Often tell us that he was likely to lose. It was never false modesty with him. He was simply humble.
I remember thinking that he always looked the same. His skin dark and leathery from hours out in the sun. I don’t remember him aging from the time I was little till… well just recently, the last few years. He still had the same smile in his eye, the slightly hunched posture, and the pleasant gravelly voice he seemed to always have. He slowed down, but he seemed to look the same. Until my Aunt Sharon’s funeral. It had been some time since I had last seen him and he appeared old then. That was the first time I remember ever thinking that Uncle Cliff looked old.
I read about Uncle Cliff’s life. What he accomplished. The adventures that he had. I can’t help but feel that stories could be told for days around the fire about him. To some he was a bartender. To some he was their ditchrider. To others he was a hunting companion. To many, and most importantly, he was father and grandfather. To me he was a wizard at throwing horseshoes and a fierce worker who I enjoyed being around. It’s hard time losing such a man. But what an amazing life.
posted by F.G. Shaw @ 1:11 AM
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