Freddy's Room

I had a dream of my Uncle Freddy last night. I hadn't thought of him in years. I didn't know him all that well because we lived far apart, in many ways both physical and… otherwise.

I was looking at a picture of myself, taken yesterday, and I was reminded of him. With a ball cap on, my full head of still dark hair hidden, my age shows. Dark lines hide white lies. Time Flies.

So Freddy was deaf, and mostly mute. He grunted a few things, could make an almost word now and then. He certainly wasn’t stupid or ‘dumb’. But he grew up in an era that saw him as such. The 1930’s. My Grandmother and Grandfather, old by the time Freddy came along, were too tired to put a lot of effort into training him to use sign language or sending him to some special school. Since Freddy couldn’t go to the regular school he stayed home. I think my Grandfather was probably grateful for the extra help around the dairy farm. A family farm, a lot of work for a man of age.

So Freddy worked, all his life in fact, on farms. When the family farm was sold, all the offspring cast to the corners of the country, Freddy needed a place to go. So his closest sister took him in, and put him to work on a Wyoming ranch. Rustling cattle, riding horses. He did that for a good part of his life; I think the work suited him. Freddy was short and stocky, built like a steel spring wrapped in leather straps.

The thing I remember most is his hands. Powerful hands, that looked like the roots of a hundred year oak tree. Itching for work, aching for the touch of dirt. The hands had a purpose, and wanted that purpose, and fulfilled it well.

When the sister got out the ranching business, Freddy got passed from relative to relative for a while, like a man without a country. When he landed with my Father for a time, he would walk a lot; restless, looking for something to do. Even when he turned 80 years old, his hands were still those of an oak tree. He would sit in his rocking chair, and fidget his hands.

The day my Dad died, I found myself back at my folk’s house, staring at Uncle Freddy. Trying to figure out a way to tell him his closest brother had just passed away, out for a walk and heart exploding in his chest, never giving him a chance to even call for help.

It was almost comical. I made hand gestures, Freddy laughed at me. I tried to be serious, but I almost laughed too, before realizing I’d never get the message through if I did. So instead I cried. I think the message got through OK, it was the best I could do. It was like passing a ciphered note in class and then remembering to send the key.

Freddy went to his room, sat in his rocking chair. He looked out the window, making those funny breathing noises he always made because he didn’t know anyone could hear them. He rocked and he rocked, trying to take it in.

Communication is a funny thing, even when we can hear each other. In lots of ways, I think we all sit alone in our rooms, waiting for someone to pass us a note or two. Maybe the best any of us can do is pass each other notes. Lets try and remember that we need to pass the key.