A Person I Met Along My Way — Uncle Tom

It was 1961 and it was summer. I lived in Washington, DC. I was ten. We had moved from 4th Street to 3rd Street. It was momentous to me at the time, a move of just one block meant another world, a starting over place. It was not the first of the start overs, but it was the first one I recognized as being just that, a new place, a new start. A beginning again, new hope, a feeling that maybe this time would be different.  

In this new place, there were new neighbors; some were welcoming, some were not, and then there was the man next door who told us to call him Uncle Tom. He was simply like no other human being I had ever met before. His voice was a raspy baritone. He was all salt and pepper hair and whiskery beard. He was burly.

Uncle Tom was Italian. He almost always had a pot of spaghetti sauce on the back of the stove. Just like Aunt Mary or old Mrs. Moscato, other stories for other times. The air would be filled with the scent of basil and tomatoes, Parmigiano Reggiano, fresh-baked bread, and the melodious sounds of Opera. He did not sing like an angel, but he sang and he cooked and tended to his friends, his tiny birds. He told me once he was content. I had never seen content before I met Uncle Tom. But now in my present age, I can see that is just what he was, content. At ten, I decided I liked people who were content. Actually, at 68, I still like people who are content.

I don’t remember our first meeting. I don’t know why I was in his house, but what I do remember is the bird song. It came from every corner of every room. There were cages hung from the ceiling and perched on every table. Any space a cage could be placed, there was a cage. Some were plain, some quite ornate, just like the small residents inside. There were parakeets, canaries, and exotics. Uncle Tom had a name for each and every one. There must have been fifty maybe more, maybe less. I was ten. He would open a cage and the bird would alight on his hand. The bird would dance and chirp and he would chirp back. So gentle and tender this man with the big hands and the voice that boomed.

That first summer he decided he wanted a porch on the back of his house. In actuality, as I remember, when it was done it was more like the decks we have today than the traditional porches of that era. He drew up the plans. His brother Frank got the materials and Uncle Tom set about building it. My brother and I helped, carrying nails, setting planks in place. It took a couple of weeks maybe longer. My concept of time at ten probably was not highly accurate. When it was done, it was amazing. I saw it as a marvel, a wonder. I had helped and it made me feel accomplished and gave me pride I had not ever felt before.

I don’t ever remember being discounted because I was just a kid by Uncle Tom. Which was usually the way adults treated me. In fairness, adults generally treated kids as if we were incapable and just bits of bother. We never had deep philosophical conversations about life or God or even anything approaching such lofty thoughts as I would in later years with Jaunita, another person along my way.  No Uncle Tom taught me by showing me how to move forward, how to keep going by doing. There was no place for whine, could have, should have with Uncle Tom. No, I can’t do. To be accomplished I had to accomplish. I had to do even when doing was hard and seemed impossible. If I ever wanted to get to where I wanted to go inertia would not get me there. Even if I at the moment didn’t know where I wanted to go, doing nothing, learning nothing, not participating in life was not an option. Life was not for the weak-willed but the strong-willed, the persistent. If I had nothing else he told me I had the ability to choose the path of doing or whining no matter my circumstance. These lessons were woven in with the lessons of how to wield a hammer, how to measure and cut wood.

I never doubted Uncle Tom when he said he would build that porch. He was the first adult in my life that I can remember feeling his word was true and absolute. If he said something would be, then it would be. He quite literally was incapable of having feet of clay. He just simply did what he said he would do, made no excuses, and asked little in favor. Uncle Tom had no legs. He was an above-the-knee bilateral amputee. He was an exemplar not hollow facade. He was a character in my life to whom I owe much.