Remembering a Recluse

Atlanta, GA

December 19, 2020

Earlier this week, I lamented that I have penned more eulogies and condolences this year than in any I can remember. Now, a week before Christmas, I regret we must lengthen the list.

Throughout the first half of my life, large family gatherings punctuated Christmas Day. First my grandparents, and later my parents, would host some or all of my mother’s siblings and their families. My mother’s older brother lived in Florida for many of those years, and was a regular attendee.

As a kid, I liked my uncle Bernie, who I called by his nickname “Dink”. But I can’t say I knew him well. Not that I didn’t see him often. We actually saw each other with some regularity during the first forty years of my life. He just didn’t divulge much. He always left you with more of an impression than an understanding.

But we usually had a great time. When my brother and I were kids, we’d often see him when the family gathered at his condo on Longboat Key. We enjoyed the occasions when our uncle would supervise us, because he’d usually spend the time tossing us incessantly into the Gulf of Mexico.

Much as we loved it, his reasons for doing it were more for him than for us. The more active he kept us, the more tired we’d get. When we collapsed from fatigue induced by sun and surf, he’d settle back into his chair, pop another Schlitz, and enjoy a quiet evening.

Not long after Dink married his wife Susie, they moved to Utah and lived on a small farm near Logan, about twenty miles south of the Idaho border. Their first winter there, my mother, brother, and I visited them.

I don’t remember everything (or even much of what) we did, but it was the first time those two kids from Florida experienced significant amounts of snow. We loved it. The farm animals were also novelties for a couple boys raised across a canal from downtown Tampa.

While we were there, Dink brought us to our first college basketball game, at the home of the Utah State Aggies (they won). He also drove us a half an hour north…into Franklin, Idaho…simply so we could say we’d been to that state.

He impressed his naive nephews by telling them our family had given its name to the town. When I asked if it wasn’t named for Benjamin Franklin, he admitted it was, but then said we were descended from him. I bought that story, and for several years boasted of my noble lineage to all my indifferent friends.

Dink had a dry sense of humor, laced with sarcasm. It occasionally came out at our family feasts, where it competed for airtime with the more voluble “wits” around the room. Other times, he would be more withdrawn, particularly as the crowd grew.

We remained in touch after I graduated college and moved to San Francisco. He was there periodically for work, and never failed to call me when he was. Fine food, fancy restaurants, and eclectic sights were wasted on Dink. In a city abundant with each, he preferred to meet at the bar in his airport hotel, grab a burger and a few beers, and catch up while watching whatever game happened to be on TV. We may as well have been in Evergreen, Ohio.

But we did that every time he was in town. And it was great. I still remember him consoling me with extra beers after we watched the Braves lose to the Twins in the 1991 World Series. Being a Cubs fan, he could relate to his team losing, but couldn’t fathom the notion of it being in a World Series. And I know his concern was sincere, because he actually bought the beers.

Dink was always reclusive and quirky, tendencies that he accentuated and accelerated later in his life. After his wife died, and certainly by the time his father did, he apparently evolved into a full-blown hermit. For whatever reasons, even before my grandfather’s death, he started shunning members of his family. Before long, he seemed to be deliberately estranging himself from them.

After my grandfather died, my parents continued to invite him each year for Thanksgiving or Christmas. He always declined the invitation. The last few years, I’m not sure he even bothered to respond.

The last time I saw Dink was eleven years ago, at his father’s funeral. Even then, he didn’t seem to really be there. He sat in the back of the chapel, away from everyone else, and drove home as soon as the service was over, deciding against the family reception my mother hosted and to which the rest of us were going.

I sent him a couple letters and a few emails over the ensuing years, and spoke to him once by phone. I would’ve called more, but he clearly had no desire. Oddly, until a few years ago, he continued to send Christmas cards. Each year, we’d reply with our own, conveying with it our email address and interest in resuming contact, which he evidently did not share.

Thursday morning I was in a meeting when I noticed an incoming call from my mother. Being unavailable, I intended to call her later. Then, after a few minutes, came another, from my brother. Beginning to worry, but still being busy, I texted him to see if everything was all right. 

It wasn’t. He told me that our mother was contacted and told Dink had died. I immediately left my meeting and returned both calls. As my mother relayed the news, and I thought about it afterward, I wasn’t sure how to feel. Having been out of touch with Dink for more than a decade, I’m not bereft. And I don’t feel grief.

But I do feel sad.

Not really for me, tho’ there is some of that. I would want to say goodbye, but I feel like he left a long time ago. My immediate reaction was despair for him. To the extent I mourned, I realized it was not so much for his death as for the last decade of his life. 

He lived alone, and seemed intentionally to shield himself from any human contact or interpersonal relationships. He clearly loved his wife. But when she died, whatever interest he had in other people went with her. As did his enjoyment of life.

Or so it seems. But who knows? I certainly don’t. For all I know, he was doing exactly what he wanted, precisely the way he wanted to do it. And he probably was. After all, he had the ability and opportunity to do otherwise had he wished. He obviously didn’t. Who am I to say he wasn’t happy? For all I know, he was out every night, meeting friends, picking up chicks, and sampling every bar and bistro in Bradenton.

But I doubt it.

He probably, whatever his reasons, just wanted to be left alone, be by himself, and to have some peace. 

I hope he found it.

JD