Her Laugh and Smile.
*
I had thought I had this on the blog, it appears that I did not. I am rectifying that. This is about my Aunt Sharon and was originally written on July 17th, 2014*
I remember being afraid of Aunt Sharon when I was very little. I'm still, to do this day, not sure why. I think it may be simply because she wasn't inclined to take any guff, and I was a precocious child at times, well very talkative (I still am). Perhaps it's because I knew that she would get after me if I got an outline (and justifiably so).
I remember going with dad to see Aunt Sharon now and then, she'd be in her kitchen, which reminded me of grandma Shaw's kitchen, the deep rich smell of coffee in the air. Aunt Sharon would sit in her chair smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee with dad while they bantered back and forth. My father would make some jibe at her, and her eyes would narrow for a moment before she filled the room with laughter. Her laugh was deep and hearty. Genuine. It would bring a smile to your face just to hear it, if not beg you to join in, laughing with her.
I remember her and grandma playing cards. I'm not sure, but I suspect she enjoyed cards as much or more than grandma did. A few times they let me join in. There was a competitive razzing that went back and forth between the two of them. I saw the razzing with my father and uncle A.D.. It must be hereditary. She always had a twinkle in her eye.
She enjoyed the game almost as much as she enjoyed the time spent with
those playing the game.
I'm ashamed to admit I hadn't seen Aunt Sharon in quite some time. She has been in my thoughts of late though, and I had intended to see her in the next few weeks. But the intention is not action and missed opportunities can never be won back. I have only myself to blame for that.
I keep her in my memories now, next to mom and dad, aunt Evelyn, grandma Shaw and grandma Jennie, and all the friends and family that are no longer here. I'd like to remember her laugh and her smile.
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.
