Old Times

Reuniting with a new reunion

Hey! What’s the difference between returning home and going home?

For me, the two hold different intentions — a round trip versus a straight shot. Although none of that is ever really thought about in the moment they are said.

Not unlike all those defining moments of our life where a small detail carves a path for many years to come. None are more impactful than the realization of our identities when we move from a lost child to an inexperienced adult.

Vivid memories that stay with us for decades and decades.

And all that culminates in forgetting how and when exactly we got to where we are now — whether we are returning or going home.

Train Station

I met up with my uncle and his wife at the train station last week. We haven’t seen each other for over a year, but that seems like a relatively short period of time considering how long our mutual absences have stretched in the past.

After a humble welcoming and a ride out to the dirtier part of the city I call home, we shared drinks and conversations like we last saw each other just the day before.

No real expectations or plans, just happy to share both empty and full glasses over finger food and a deck of cards.

Something about all that really reminded me of how his visits impacted the whole house when I was growing up. We were a relatively big family, three sisters and no brothers plus Mom and Dad made six people at home when we were all together — and that’s without counting the pets.

The usual routine had us all in separate worlds. Maybe it wasn’t actively avoiding each other, but we certainly held our secrets close. From the worst regrets to the most mundane interests, there were new books, new games, new drinks, new lovers, or just a new episode of Star Trek being experienced and enjoyed somewhere in the house.

Only the most innocuous of stories about our day were ever shared around the fringes of that otherwise highly individualized routine. I believe my parents thought that even if no one really cared to listen, the act of sharing in and of itself made us appreciate each other more — made it worth the effort of setting the table and being there.

However, when Uncle Steve visited, everything changed. We were all invited to spend more time around the big dining room table to play board games and cards. His crude nature and loose lips were seen as endearing, but we all watched in awe as his mouth formed bad words — the syllables dancing up and down his iconic mustache.

There was an honest comradery in it all. He taught us poker and rummy, but Mom made sure we never used real money. Our house didn’t even have poker chips, so we resorted to using pennies from the penny jar as tokens.

After a couple nights of laughing together, he would leave and we fell back into the more silent and siloed routine familiar to our home.

The harshest reading being that we ignored each other as seconds moved into hours moved into months moved into decades.

And so, remembering all this after another one of my uncle’s visits, I was inspired. I thought I’d try writing something around one of those memories.

Sea Change

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming, they see you go
They know your secrets, and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares

“Getting over here was a real fuck story.” Uncle Steve was never one to mince words. He spoke with a laugh even if there was real anger and annoyance behind the sentiment.

He was the younger brother of my dad’s family, but didn’t let the shadow of legacy and expectations hold him back. He held onto his own style, for better or worse, and didn’t care much if others adhered or abode.

“I saw there was an accident on the highway. Did it back things up all the way down?” Dad liked to try and keep up with his sibling, but over the years he had grown soft — worn down half by Mom, half by the four of us children. My oldest sister described it as Dad becoming less and less of an older brother and more and more of a tired old man. She always helped our generation better understand the unspoken culture and customs of the one before.

“Not the worst, but still longer than the typical three hour drive — right through the middle of Florida!” Uncle Steve spoke in a shuffled code as he shrugged off the long ride and prepared to spend time with his family.

“The drivers get worse the closer you get here.” Dad added his own quip, still clinging to his past self in whatever way he could.

“Hoo… You have no idea.” Uncle Steve hunched his shoulders as he made his way to the fridge to grab a cold beer. Mom knew to stock up on his favorite before he arrived. “Jeanne, I knew you’d have some Beck’s for me! Not like I can trust my brother to be prepared!”

“Do I know you or what?” Mom liked helping her brother-in-law, she liked helping everyone and anyone in the family. She wore a grin from ear to ear, happy and proud to have remembered the right brand.

“Uncle Steve!” Us kids were next. We rushed over to greet him. Our ages spread over 20 years, but we still held that excitement close to our hearts. Although it was a bit less then.

My oldest sister was away at college. We had recently moved across multiple state lines and she was attending what used to be an in-state university. That left me and my two other sisters to hog all the extra attention.

“Hey! How are you all?” It’s a bit overwhelming when a group of children start speaking to you at the same time. “Katy’s still up in Virginia?”

“She said she wanted to make it down, but with exams coming up and flights a little expensive, she couldn’t make it.” Mom offered an acceptable excuse — even if no one was asking for one.

“Ah, right. She’s still driving that old car? The stick shift?” Uncle Steve offered to continue the conversation and they let the topic float for a short while. It all felt like boring adult stuff to me and my young ears.

So, I’d wait with my sisters for the initial excitement to carry us to the dining room table, where a deck of cards and a few more empty bottles awaited. We could spend the whole afternoon playing rounds of one game or another.

“That’s another run! I won!” My little sister was quick to pick up the rules and surprised everyone with how well she could play.

“Stop cheating, Molly!” Uncle Steve joked as he calculated the scores. We all had a laugh, but maybe Molly really thought she did something wrong. That didn’t stop her from trying to win the next round and eventually sweeping the whole table just before we set off for bed.

That trip there was a bit more to do though. The next day there was a Bauer Boys fishing trip planned.

For some reason, Dad decided it was time for 10-year-old me to learn how to fish. I was drowning after our recent move and would never truly heal from the pain of losing friends… again.

I imagine he thought a manly activity could make me learn to grow out of my swelling shell. He wanted to help his only son find his footing as more than just a shy little boy.

At the best of times, we struggled to connect. He was a fearsome symbol of authority in the house. One whom we were told not to disturb. That’s not to say he didn’t love us, just that he was fighting dark demons of his own — he wanted to shield us from his own regrets and inner turmoil.

When I grew into my own personality, his silence only deepened the divide between us. The lack of any real shared interests or passions made it even harder. Dad enjoyed a good game of rhetoric and spreading the good word.

I, on the other hand, was content living in a world hidden and created by my own imagination. I had no problem sharing that universe if given the space, but instantly retreated into the corner when questioned.

I never was one to openly speak about my lost cause.

Fishing was thus the latest activity to attempt forging a bond between father and son. A way to salvage what little hope remained between my ever-rising castles made of sand and Dad’s ever deepening depths of despair.

“You don’t have any equipment!” Uncle Steve was rummaging through our garage the next morning as we prepared to go out. The room was filled with junk from the move and years of raising a family. Among all that was there, fishing rods and bait and reels were nowhere to be found. “Do you know where the closest shop is?”

“There might be some fishing equipment in here. I think my old rod is somewhere around here…” Dad started looking through the piles of assorted equipment, but the chance of finding what we needed was slim to none.

“Let’s just go get some new shit.” Uncle Steve knew more about fishing than Dad. He used to work on a boat and it showed. From the missing fingers to the taste for large quantities of beer, he wore his experience on his sleeves.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had my own fishing rod.” I spoke up with a small voice as the tension somewhat rose in the growing heat of the un-air conditioned garage.

“Yeah… John needs his own rod anyway.” Dad was a trained lawyer and knew how to twist any narrative away from his mistakes. It was an incredible skill that made us all quickly read a conversation and find its logical flaws. And with that we were off, traveling down the road toward a tackle shop near the water.

“You have a good fishing spot in mind?” Uncle Steve asked Dad as we pulled out of the parking lot, a bucket of live shrimp squirming next to my legs. We had loaded up the truck with fresh equipment and supplies, but I didn’t really know what any of it meant or what it was really for.

“Yeah, I heard about one not too far from here.” Dad spoke confidently, but I can’t imagine he really knew much of the area. We were new to town and settling into the house didn’t exactly go as smoothly as he had hoped. “One of my coworkers likes to fish and told me about this spot up ahead.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s go then!” Uncle Steve took Dad at his word. Even when he was otherwise making jokes or busting chops, he was fiercely loyal and never questioned Dad’s word or his trust. Before long, everything was tumbling out of the truck as we set up just off the road along the side of a saltwater river.

“I think there’s something on mine…” I sheepishly spoke after several hours of mostly being bored, listening to Dad and Uncle Steve talk and gossip about friends, family, and work.

“You got one! Bring it in, John!” Dad rushed over as he saw my line jerk hard. I was the first one to catch something worth keeping the whole day. The excitement of reeling that fish in was only matched by the fear I felt when it started flopping on the rocky bank.

“We can eat that one for dinner!” Uncle Steve shouted between his laughter as he came over to help. We then made our way back home, triumphant and ready to share the small bounty of a single snook.

The excitement then continued into our evening meal. Mom and my sisters were happy for me, and Dad cooked up the fish on the grill. After the nice meal, we stayed up late playing cards again, Molly winning more hands than she rightly should.

“Molly, you’re cheating!” My second sister spoke up this time. She was in the worst of the teenage years, but even she set aside the angst and joined us for the special event.

“No I’m not, Michelle!” Molly retorted and the table erupted in laughter. There was unlikely any actual foul play in such a low-stakes game, but riling up a sibling is always good fun.

Just like the night before, the game ended and we all headed to bed. Uncle Steve left the next morning and we wished him well for the long drive ahead.

“Bye! See you soon!” We shouted and raised our hands in an odd shape as the truck drove away. Mom told us it meant ‘I love you’ in sign language — something Katy taught us back when we still lived in Virginia.

I held back the tears in my overly sensitive eyes, but now I can only hold back laughter. The worst part of the whole experience was that I’ve never liked fish.

But even though I never liked the taste, I’ll always cherish the memory of eating, playing cards together, and spending that day fishing with Dad and Uncle Steve.

Forever Afraid

Writing out that memory — with a few embellishments, of course — also reminded me of how terrified I am to share them.

I often feel like I’ll be judged for writing how I feel or how I felt. I know there will be people close to my heart who have strong opinions about my incorrect and inconsistent depictions of events.

The veracity of historical inaccuracies may be read as a lack of tact or a shameful display of public misrepresentation.

But I’m not trying to record everything exactly as it was. I simply want to capture the emotions of a fleeting moment, following the broad lines of what may or may not have actually happened.

If I can then transform that vague emotion into an entertaining story, well that’s all the better.

And if you could see me now, you’d definitely notice the panic on my face and the trembling in my fingers as I type this qualifying conclusion.

I see that as all the more reason to share it though.

Courage is acting in the face of fear rather than the absence of fear itself — whether I’m returning or going home.

So, that’s it until next time.

—JMB