The passing of my uincle Frank

Tonight my dad called to tell me that my uncle Frank had died yesterday night. He was 98. A remarkable age to attain. And he was the twin brother of my grandfather, Fred, who died from injuries suffered in a cotton mill accident in 1956. Fred's arm was wrenched out of his socket as he threw loops of twine over his shoulder in the room with the looms, and he died several days later, never regaining consciousness, at Crawford Long in Atlanta. That's how I remember uncle Frank telling me the story several years ago. In January when I last visited him, and hospice care had just begun, he'd forgotten how his brother had died.
Every time I'd visited Frank in the last 7 years he'd greet me with my dad's name, Jerry. It would take awhile before he'd realize that I was Jerry's son and that I was named for his brother. He would frequently remark that "life's a teacher." I suppose he meant that change is unavoidable and also not too bad. The last day I saw him, again he called me Jerry. He was sitting on his room mate's bed in the nursing home, looking out the window. We talked about the squirrels and birds for an hour. He was childlike.
When he and my grandfather were born in Arkansas, in 1909, the midwife had put him in the warming part of a wood stove to keep him alive. He loved to recount that. He told me about getting lost in the woods while opossum hunting and following the north star home. He told me about his father's running off with another woman: how his mother, Victoria, had gathered the children together and taken the train from Arkansas back to Georgia. Months later my great grandfather returned as well and she took him back.
Of those children, only his little sister, Essie, my aunt Mae, now 90 something herself, remains. The Funeral is Sunday, tomorrow, at 3 pm in Covington. I wonder if she'll be there.
I would love to be there but I'm 367 miles away.

The two water colors here are kitchen scenes. I had intended to write about cooking and just as I started, dad called with the news of Frank's passing.

Figures

I went and saw my great uncle, Frank, at the Home. He's in the same place that my grandmother spent her last six months at, but he still has his senses. Sure, each time he sees me he calls me by my dad's name, Jerry. He says, Jerry, glad to see you. And I go along with it. His twins brother's name was Fred. Fred died in a mill accident, his arm was ripped off by a machine and he bled to death, four years before I was born. I'm named after him. So if I say that I'm Fred too early in our conversation uncle Frank will say, "you look well. I haven't seen you in years. " I'm afraid at those moments he might think I'm a ghost. So at the beginning of our time together I accept the fact that I'm Jerry. Even though I'm not.
Over the course of our conversation uncle Frank will piece it together and blurt out, "you're not Jerry you're Fred."
Instead I listen to my uncle talk about his life. He'll repeat the phrase, "life's a teacher" several times, and I can't help wondering what he's learned over 98 years. I consider that in 47 years I've learned that things work out. I can anxiously buy the best seller now or I can check it out at the library in a few weeks or buy it in the remainder bin for a dollar in a month. That all I was anxious about at 20 or 22 or 26 or 30 has had a way of working out and that if I'd been less impulsive I'd have saved myself some grief as well as some money.
Frank talks about being in the Masons. He talks about teaching Sunday school for 30 years. He talks about his wife and his brother and his mother (the Victoria I'd posted on previously here). He wants to know that I'm right with the Lord - though he's less prone to preach now. His faith seems more declarative now than imperative. More about what he believes than what I should believe.
I used to pester him for information about his father and grandfather. But I've not these last two times. Still he tells me that I remember things better than he does. As much as I want to turn over some long fallow piece of family lore, some secret that will unravel the mystery like a massive knot, I realize that such a thing is not worth it here. I have started to simply enjoy being in uncle Frank's presence. Here is a man who is 98 this November. He has lived a life. Now he is tucked under his blanket in his room on a day after Independence day and it's 93 degrees outside. Just a few years ago he would have been sitting on the front porch at this place: now he's in his room. He lives outside of time.
When I leave I don't play the radio in my car. I want to retain the feel of being with him and hearing him as far down the road as I can.