Kharma

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Geo: 46.3422, -120.186

Earl was that uncle. Everybody has one. The wacky, fun, crazy, beer-drinking, drag-racing, trouble-making uncle. Growing up, I rarely got to see him since he lived in Washington. I only had a few memories of him. I remember him doing a back flip into a swimming pool with a beer in each hand. We all cheered when he actually landed it without spilling the beer. I was the ring bearer at his wedding. I do not recall the wedding at all, but I do remember going back to grandma and grandpa's house and not wanting to take off my tux and cumberbun cause I liked them so much. When I finally agreed to change out of the tux into my normal clothes, I remember a young uncle Earl spinning my siblings and I around by our wrists in the front yard. And that's really about it. A wedding or funeral here or there, or an occasional Christmas card sent to my parents' home with pictures of his two children, whom I had also never really known at all.

Long ago, when my cousin Beth (Earl's daughter) was just getting to that age where she would be turning into a woman soon, Earl was called to action to bury a cow that had died. Whether it was his own or not, I cannot remember, but he had a backhoe and was the man for the job. Living out in the country, there ain't a lot to do, so when the local boys heard that he was going to be burying a cow in the ground, the afternoon's plans made themselves! A group of boys of all ages gathered and watched intently as Earl dug a huge hole in the ground, pushed the dead heifer down, and covered her back up with earth. When he was done, he shut off the engine, looked at the boys, and said to them, "You see how easy that was? Just remember that next time you're looking at my daughter."

A 4-hour drive through desolate north central Oregon, getting pulled over for going 40 in a 30 (bullshit, I'll give you 36, but I was not going 40), no ticket though, crossing the mighty Columbia River into Washington, beyond groves of massive windmills, through some forested hills, and down some back country roads, to grandmother's old house we go.

He lived in the same old farm house that my grandma used to - the kick ass Puerto Rican gang leader grandma that now lives outside of Reno. It had been 20 years or more, since the wedding, since I had been to the farm. It was Sunday. His son's 18th birthday. A son that I know I had seen pictures of, but I honestly can't remember if I actually ever seen in person. They were having a big cookout with some friends and neighbors. When I pulled up, distant, vague memories started sneaking in from deep within my mind. The front yard where Earl had spun us around, which used to seem HUGE, now looked a little cramped. The memories were so faint that I wasn't actually sure if it was indeed the same grand farm house I had been to so many years before!

A group of folks was sitting in the back yard under a tent, smells of fresh bbq staining the air. I noticed Earl immediately. A spitting image of his father, grandpa Burt. Grandpa, like his wife, was a force to be reckoned with. For one, he always had that horribly spiky beard that felt like it was going to rip your skin off whenever he kissed us as children. He was big. Loud. Always right. A bigoted and racist old-time sonofabitch, but another one of the hardest workers I will ever know. He literally worked himself to death. His last days of life were spent on a cot at his home. Unable to do anything for himself. Anything. So uncharacteristic of a man who could (and probably did at some point) single-handedly build a home from the ground up. Using tools, if needed. He died the summer after I graduated from high school in his mobile home out in Silver Springs. I had been out there just hours earlier, and I remember it feeling very odd that I was one of the last people to have seen him alive.

Yet, here he was, so captured by the figure and presence of my crazy Uncle Earl. Much older than I remembered him to be, and boasting quite the beer belly! (He assured us, later, that beer bellies are not hard - you just drink lots of beer and don't really exercise). Numerous neighbors were there, young and old. After a few minutes, a tall, thin, rag-haired kid came walking toward me. Although I never would have recognized him, I knew it was my cousin Tim. Smile, handshake, hug, and happy birthday. Immediately after, grub was on! BBQ ribs, lamb, chicken, and all the potato salad you could want. Impeccable timing!

People quickly found I that I played guitar and demanded a show. Lucky for me, someone also grabbed Norm's guitar. An old cowboy, big old handle-bar mustache and bucket cowboy cat. This was a real old timer! He played first. Some old folk song, perfect for life in the country, for life on the farm. Applause! "Well," I said, "all I write is sad shit, so, this might be a little different." I played one of mine. Completely different style and content and performance, but the group loved it. We went back and forth like this for at least 6 or 7 songs each. We attempted to play together a little, but our styles were so different that we mostly had to just sit back and give each other the stage. We thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated each others' music, and I think it's safe to say that all present were able to enjoy both genres, despite being light years apart. "I guess maybe I'm more of a city boy than I thought," I regretfully admitted.

After a few long nights in Bend, the two slow, relaxed nights I spent in Granger were perfect. I was fighting off a flu (horrible cold sweats both nights to the point where my sheets were damp, light headed, body aches...) and just basic exhaustion. Also, I had almost put my eye out the day before. (Stupid story, but I have to share it). In Bend, on Saturday afternoon, I stopped by a little garage sale. Why not? I saw that they had some of those elastic bands with handles on the ends that you stand on and then can use as resistance exercises. My friend from Mariposa had told me that he uses them while on the road. I decided to pick up a couple and wanted to test the tension. The driveway underneath was all rough gravel, so I didn't want to stand on the band and damage it, so I just hovered my foot a few inches over the ground and looped the elastic underneath, then started pulling the handles up. Well, my foot was clearly not properly leveled, and my sandals do not have a lot of grip, and the band slipped out from under my foot, snapping, no, launching directly into my right eye.

It felt like my eyeball was in my throat. I dropped the band and immediately had both hands over my face, leaning over on one of the small display tables, cussing more than just about anything. Between "oh, fuck"'s, I was grunting in pain, but at the same time laughing a little for being so stupid. And, of course, the homeowner saw this all take place from two feet away. "Are you ok!? Oh my god, did you put it out?!" "Oh, fuck, I don't know yet, I can't open it." I chuckled a bit. He was chuckling a little bit, too. "Sorry for laughing, I feel so bad!" "It's ok," I assured him, "I'm laughing too!" It took a couple minutes before I could ever bear to open the eye, and was relived that at least I could still see something out of it. I went ahead and bought two bands, winking like a pirate with involuntary tears and snot running down my face for the remainder of the transaction. After returning to my truck, I just laid in back for two hours, putting a wet rag over the eye from time to time to try to help the pain. Oh, and took four ibuprofen. Tears and snot would continue to make their way out of my face for the remainder, and even into the evening, when I met my new friends. Much of the drive to Washington was spent with my hand covering my right eye, because any motion or focus or dilation was just pure pain.

As I was saying, two nights on the farm was a necessary and wonderful rest. I cannot tell you how good it felt to close my red, throbbing, burning, bulging eye that first night. Good food, lots of sleep, old family, extended family, music, sunsets. The SUNSETS! They last for HOURS!!! A small system was going through at the same time I was, and both nights there, I was blessed with amazing sunsets that really did seem to last for hours, the western sky engulfed in flame, slowly fading and sinking beyond the silhouette of Mt Adams far off in the distance.

I told them that I was going to try my best to make it to Burning Man this year. "Have you ever done acid?" he asked me. "Nope. Well... not yet," I smirked. "Well let me tell you, be careful! Only do it around people you really know, and DO NOT lose them! I can't tell you how many times I woke up to the sun rising, lying on my roof." He also told me to put a $100 bill in the sole of my boot if I ever decide to do acid. "You won't remember where you put it, and you'll probably lose it, but someone else will find that bill, and kharma is a big deal when you're tripping acid." Words of wisdom.

Earl had remarried years earlier, and one of his new wife's daughters lived with them. 17 years old, texting as much as she was breathing, at that impressionable age filled with drama and boys and drama and friends and more drama. During the time we spent talking, it quickly became apparent that she had a number of friends that were bringing her down, upsetting her, perhaps due to their expectations of her, or perhaps due to her own expectations - of herself and of them. Sure, every 17-year-old is going to have that, the teenage drama, but she seemed to let so much of it really get to her. When I was leaving the farm, I gave her a hug and sincerely told her, "Don't let your dumb friends get to you so much. Life's too short to let people bring you down." I can't quite describe the face she made, but it looked a little like she had just gotten busted for something, a bit of embarrassment, "oh my God did he really just say that?" Her mother, who was standing nearby, perked up, pointed toward her daughter, and enthusiastically said, "See! I'm not the only one! Even outsiders can see it!" I assured my new young cousin that her mother did NOT tell me to say it. I'm sure her mother was relieved and thankful, however. Of course teenagers are going to think their parents are just being dumb and over reactive and are trying to ruin their life. But maybe, hopefully, when some new strange homeless cousin-in-law drops out of the sky for 40 hours and says the same thing, just maybe, it'll stick.

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Comments

[Brother from a Similar Mother]

Dude, this one was awesome. I can still picture the old farm and haven't decided if my memory is accurate or not. And Earl sounds like he still kicks ass.

[Uncle Earl's sister]

Thanks for the fabulous descriptions. And truly thank you for the memories. And I hope your eye is better! Damn it!