A Great Person

My Great Uncle Leo passed away before I gained the maturity to express my gratitude for him, to him. I regret that. I regret my treatment of he and his wife last afternoon I saw them. He loved me in a way that made me feel valued.

The way I behaved toward them, I understand now, came from feeling ashamed of myself. He is the only person I can think of that held that power. The power to cause me to feel ashamed of my choices. My behavior. He never did or said anything, it was my own feeling in my heart. He was kind. Always. I don’t think about them often. I think it hurts too much. And I am ashamed, I think, for the dumb young woman I became when he knew me, and the stories I believed as spoken harshly by family.

My Great Aunt and Uncle led a very interesting life. I wish I could talk to them about it now. My Great Aunt survived polio and used a crutch; they endured a tragic loss of a young daughter, and I’m sure there are many more life developments that shaped them, of which I never knew, never will know, but I wish I did. I think they moved North from Southern Wisconsin permanently in 1980. Maybe to be closer to family. My Grandma, his sister who lived up here, had died about 3 years earlier. That’s when I remember spending a fair amount of time with them. He and his wife, my great-aunt, also had several children and grand-children. We stopped going to see them often, then to pretty rarely, sometime in my early teens. I don’t know why.

I wish for my Uncle Leo’s soft guidance now. I think he would have been proud of me despite the turmoil of the harsh criticisms of me from friends and family. Maybe I should turn to him now. Let my Uncle Leo be the reasonable, loving voice in my head.

We had a connection when I was a little girl. A connection I know now that was very special. Back then, I just knew I loved to spend time with him, whether it was being held on his lap, learning leather work, or observing the birth of baby pigs. I called him Grandpa Leo because he looked like a grandpa to me. He had a small metal contraption so he could fill and roll his own cigarettes. For some reason, that fascinated me.

Great Aunt Mary was scary to me s a child. Now I understand much more of her story, and I am not afraid. I wish I would have known then and spent much more time with her, talking to her. Maybe she would have liked that. Maybe not. I’ll never know. The only reminders I have of them now are photos of my little horse, and a collection of champagne glasses from their wedding, much before my time.

He loved and appreciated who I was, not for who he thought I was or should be. He didn’t make me behave in a certain way to earn his love or approval. It was probably that nature, his kindness and acceptance, which made me want to be a better person, then and now.

He was also a great horseman, but I barely got to see a glimpse of that. I did get my first horse from him, his last. A foal he had bred and trained. That horse’s name was Jimmy. He was also kind and gentle. I miss him, too. I miss the wise and gentle nature of their presence. I could treat them both with much more kindness.

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