Let me tell you about my Uncle James.
Early Days
Born a few months before the Great Depression’s first birthday in June 1930, he was my Grandmother’s third child and first son. He grew up in a big house that was still too small for the Mitchell family that topped out at seven children and their parents. (There should have been eight, but Annie, the oldest daughter, died tragically when she was eight years old.) Aunt Edna was first, then Uncle James; after him, Aunt Edith was born, then Uncle Eb, Daddy, Uncle Joe, and Uncle Earl.
By the time he became my Uncle James, he had two daughters, one divorce, and a second marriage (his third—to Aunt Nell, the love of his life—would come in 1977). He’d battled in Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos and fought an even bigger war in the 1960s as a single dad to gain custody of his oldest daughter, my cousin Gail. That’s a long story I’ll leave for someone else to tell, but it’s one that defined my Uncle James for me as one who loved completely and without restraint. Uncle James was also a self-taught builder who taught the US Air Force a thing or two and got the patents to prove it.
Becoming Uncle James
My siblings and I brought his niece and nephew total to. . .let’s see . . . Aunt Edna had seven children, Aunt Edith had two, Uncle Eb had three. . . that’s 12. Is that right? I keep counting because it doesn’t compute that we were his 13th, 14th, and 15th. How could someone be so delighted with a nephew and two nieces when he already had a dozen of them? But that was Uncle James. He loved us all, deep and wide.
Now, I’m not one to deify the dead. I don’t believe humans become perfect in death and I find our tendency to gloss over human frailty annoying at best and toxic in some cases. Consequently, I’m sure I have a memory of Uncle James being frustrated or angry or otherwise unhappy, but I just can’t bring it to mind. My memories of Uncle James are unfailingly joyful.
We lived the farthest from home, so we only saw that side of the family once a year or so. Despite the above calculated fact that nieces and nephews were nothing new to him, Uncle James was always so happy to see us. We would stay for a week at a time and the relatives would gather at one house or the other to share food, memories, and laughter.
At Grandmama’s House
When we would be at Grandmama’s, all the brothers would gather on her brick patio, telling stories, some smoking cigarettes, and all of them laughing at the punchlines they had lived and knew by heart. We kids (remember there were a lot of us) would move around the edges, stopping to listen, running away to catch a cousin who tagged us, then floating back to hear the rest of the story. Uncle James was not the most outgoing of the bunch—among them were a pastor and a mayor, so that’s not saying much—but he was in the middle of it all, listening, laughing, and always fiddling with something. Pocketknife in hand, he would whittle a stick into a smaller stick; or he might be swatting flies, pursuing the hopeless goal of ridding South Georgia of the common house fly. If you happened to catch his eye after he’d brought down one of those pests, you’d witness a kaleidoscope of Uncle James’ emotions—a victory grin at his accomplishment, a sheepish blush at being caught doing something so completely pointless, then a chuckle that gave way to true laughter, often followed by him taking off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes.
That Laugh Though . . .
And that brings me to one of the very best things about Uncle James. His laugh. Uncle James’ laugh always seemed already in process. You know how when a fire goes out, but the coals remain hot? And all you have to do is blow on them and they flame up again? That’s how Uncle James’ laugh was. It was warm and ready. With the slightest encouragement, Uncle James’ grin would be widened by a hearty “heh heh.” Once started, his laugh would bubble up from deep inside, fueled by his love of life and his gratitude for family and friends. It was a beautiful thing.
A Legacy of Love
But Uncle James shouldn’t have been quick to laugh. He had suffered the loss of his young sister, his father, and who knows how many Air Force buddies. He had witnessed the horrors of war and dealt with the PTSD that remained. Heartache and disappointment flowed through his life even in the best of times. He should have been bitter and fussy, temperamental and nasty. But he wasn’t.
Instead, Uncle James chose to be consistently content and habitually delighted. As a result, he has left a legacy of love that will be passed down for generations to come.
What a privilege for me that I get to be one of the recipients of that legacy! Rest in Peace dear Uncle James.
