Uncle Skinny's Legacy

Summers were fierce in West Texas. Nathan and I would run from shade to shade, looking for a place to escape the sun’s brutal reign. We spent the break between elementary school grades exploring the town of Abilene on foot and by bike. As long as we didn’t cross the railroad tracks, we had all the freedom we wanted.

Nathan was a year older than I was and acted as our unquestioned leader. He would enter the sixth grade that fall, putting him at the top of the heap in our school. As a dutiful fifth grade follower, I went anywhere he led us in our summer adventures.

During a rare July rain, Nathan told me about the next target for exploration. It was an old barn a few lots down from his house. We had passed by it hundreds of times without a glance. Something had recently captured Nathan’s imagination about it. He was determined to get in.

The rainstorm gave us the perfect cover and we made a dash for the barn on our bikes. The water sprayed up from our tires and drenched us before we reached the end of Nathan’s driveway. By the time we got to the barn, we were soaked and shivering. We quickly stowed our bikes behind a bush and slipped in a side door.

Entering the barn mesmerized us. Two stories of ancient artifacts towered before us. On every shelf, in every storage bin, and covering multiple tables, a lifetime of memorabilia was sprawled out. We assessed the treasures before us. Model cars, tools, antique furnishings, and souvenirs from every country we could think of were waiting to be examined.

“Quite a collection, isn’t it?” An elderly male voice shattered our innocent reverie.

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind you being here,” he continued. “You’re the only people to visit in years.”

I had no idea what to say. Nathan bravely spoke up, “We didn’t mean to trespass. I live down the street and…”

“I know who you are, boy. I’ve watched both of you tearing up and and down the street all summer. I’m glad you stopped by. You can call me Uncle Skinny.”

The ridiculous name brought a smile to my face. Uncle Skinny must have weighed over 300 pounds and his paradoxical name seemed hilarious. I let out an involuntary chuckle.

“Oh, that’s funny, is it?” He tried to look menacing but his face quickly melted into a smile. “I guess it is a bit comical. Well, what would you like to look at?”

We gazed at the wonderland of fantastic objects, unsure of where to start. Nathan started to wander through the maze, touching things along the way. I took a different route to find treasures of my own.

As I examined a rusty bayonet, the outline of an old typewriter came into view. Stenciled on the front was the name “Olivetti”. It sat lopsided on a stack of yellowed onion-skin paper. Each page seemed carefully numbered but time had desiccated the paper into fragile parchment. I felt it crumble to dust as I touched the corner of a single page.

“What’s this?” I called out.

Once Uncle Skinny found me, his ready smile faded to a tight grimace.

“I keep trying to forget about those.” He walked over to the typewriter and put a hand on the keyboard. Memories seemed to possess him and spawn tiny wells of tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb…” I started.

“Oh, it’s fine.” He called out with forced frivolity. “This is just something I did for a while. I used to fancy myself a writer. I worked at the meat packing house during the day. It was hot and filthy work. So, I’d escape into books when I got home. I had a constant supply from the library that I would read to my children. They loved O. Henry at bedtime. That’s when I thought I would create my own tales of wonder. I wanted to make an entire collection of stories for my kids, like my own version of Mother Goose. So, I bought this old typewriter at a pawn shop and started writing. Sure enough, they loved them,” he gazed fondly at his creation.

The papers took on a new life in my mind. The five inch pile of yellowing pages were filled with meaning. They were gifts he had crafted for his children, mementos of precious moments of the time he had with them.

“Where are your kids now?” I asked innocently, imagining them with children of their own who looked forward to visits from their grandfather.

“My son died in Vietnam. My daughter moved to California after high school and I haven’t heard from her since. It’s just me now. My wife passed away years ago.” He looked at the sheets with nostalgia, “These abandoned stories are my shrine to them.”

Nathan and I looked at the collection and then at each other. What was typed on those pages? What adventures, mysteries, and romances were waiting to be explored? I reached out a tentative hand to touch the top of the stack.

“No!” Uncle Skinny cried. “You can’t move them! That pile is ready to crumble. The only reason these stories is exist is because I don’t touch them. If we tried to move them they’d turn to dust. They are the only reminder I have of my children and my wife. No one will ever read them again.”

“Can you tell us the stories?” I asked hopefully.

He looked at me with a bittersweet smile and replied, “I wish I could. I was so creative back then. Such a vivid imagination…” he stared off wistfully. “I’d really like to remember them. They were heroic and educational. They were my way of teaching my kids how to be their best. But, I don’t remember a single one of them now.”

We stared at the bounty of Uncle Skinny’s creativity, forever out of reach. All of us felt the pang of loss but, Uncle Skinny experienced it much deeper than we could understand. We mourned the loss of a great diversion. He had been forbidden from reliving the beauty of his own art by the passage of time. The decaying words of his typewritten narratives were the final remains of his artistic soul.

At the time, I couldn’t understood what Uncle Skinny felt. I was still worried about my first kiss. Uncle Skinny‘s emotional turmoil escaped my youthful consciousness. I’ve only recently acquired enough empathy to comprehend his loss.

Uncle Skinny passed away while we were in junior high. Before that, he let us wander through his barn every summer until we got too old to care anymore. It must have been sad for him to lose his young companions so suddenly. Imagining his loneliness still pains me.

Nathan and I rode our bikes over to his house shortly after his death. We watched his daughter and her children, around our age, sorting through Uncle Skinny’s life to decide what to keep and what to burn. We walked our bikes over to them.

“We knew him,” Nathan said pointedly. “He was really cool to us. He let us look at the stuff in the barn. He was a good guy. Are you related?”

“I’m his daughter, Meredith,” she introduced herself. “Thanks for saying that. I didn’t really know him very well. I left here a long time ago.”

“Yeah, we know,” I sheepishly ventured. “I mean, he said you left after graduation.”

“That’s right,” she smiled at me. “Since you guys were so close, why don’t you go pick out a souvenir from the barn. I’m sure he’d want you to have something to remember him by. Just promise to get something that has meaning for you.”

Nathan and I looked at each other with a grin and nodded our agreement to the terms. “Thanks. We’d like that,” Nathan replied.

We headed to the barn, each knowing what we wanted. Nathan had turned into a motor head once driving became an achievable goal. He rushed over and grabbed Uncle Skinny’s mammoth toolbox, beaming over his new stash of automotive instruments.

I took the circuitous path ending at the altar of Uncle Skinny’s writing. Once again, I marveled at the mass of his prolific work, now a loosely bound group of molecules awaiting their release. The Olivetti typewriter still sat precariously on those holy writings.

Ceremonially, I grasped the typewriter in both hands, imagining the countless hours Uncle Skinny had spent at its keyboard. I lifted the antique machine gently from its perch with the skill of a surgeon and triumphantly walked away with my prize. Nathan caught up to me as I reached the doorway. He looked at my new prize and back at the stack of papers. A congratulatory smirk crept across his face as he nudged me forward. Uncle Skinny’s shrine stayed in tact. I hoped his daughter would see that old, dusty stack of paper and remember her father’s love.

Recently, Nathan and I enjoyed a reunion. The passage of decades has brought many life altering changes for both of us. As we filled in the blanks of our personal history, I couldn’t help but notice that we had followed the paths we started in Uncle Skinny’s barn. Nathan has become a successful mechanic and owns his own business. I have continued exploring the written word and documenting each chapter of my life. I’ve always wanted to have a successful writing career. The toolbox and the typewriter from that old barn have never been far from our paths.