Uncle P

Well, damn.

Compared to most, this entry is going to be short.

Uncle P died last night. This comes at a wonderful time, as my grandmother is in the hospital, having been taken there by ambulance 5 days ago, and I am pretty sure she’s going to die any day now. I hope the stress of learning of her son’s demise doesn’t finish her off.

I will hit on a few key points and then leave this blog entry. I am not crushed at his demise, I was never close to him. But it sucks, it’s (almost) always sad when somebody dies.

He wasn’t always kind and he wasn’t always fair. All the same, my laments about him are largely petty and they pale in comparison to those about his monstrous sisters, my Mother and my Aunt Francie.

His name does not start with a P – I opted to call him Uncle P in this blog because he was very much an “Uncle Pervy”. To his credit he never molested me, but during the brief and unhappy time that I had to live with him he said many discomfiting things. “If I wasn’t your uncle…!” If you weren’t my uncle then what? Still nothing – because ew!

I worked at a biker bar and he came down to eat one night. The bar was very long and I needed a rag on the bar, so rather than go all the way around I pooked my knee up onto the bar stool and reached over the bar, effectively sticking my ass in the air for all of about a second. I wasn’t thinking about anything even remotely sexual, especially not at work in front of my hard-ass female biker boss and my uncle, so I hardly did it for his benefit, my sole purpose was to get the goddamned rag. Still he gawped openly at my ass and made these mm-mm-mm noises in his throat (almost like one would typically expect from a black lady and usually followed by the word “chile”). My boss  got all big-eyed but she held her tongue, after all I was an adult at that point and he was a paying customer, so she hushed her mouf’. But still…


There were other offenses, lies, insults, a fight on Christmas, but none of it worth elaborating about here.  Like I said, petty shit compared to the shit his wicked sisters did to me. He did, though, contribute to my grandmother’s decision to give my long-promised inheritance away…  😦

I have no idea if the following story has anything to do with Uncle P but I will include it here because it is just one more of the bizarre, gross, hopefully unusual (?) and possibly mildly traumatic stories of my life. I mean, it must have made SOME impact on me, because I remember it! It turns out I had my chronology a tad fucked up, I had to consult my grandmother about the chronology of some of these events because the events that I am blogging about in some cases happened when I was roughly 3 and 4 years old, so of course I cannot remember everything. In the Aunt Francie blog post I mentioned an incident in which a sexually abused little girl was the first one to basically educated me on the realities surrounding sex & genitals. I remember that incident as being the first time I understood – but apparently what happened with Uncle P’s children happened even before that, but I was SO young at that point I didn’t even understand what I was seeing and hearing – I just thought – “damn! these kids are freaks!” and wrote it off as a bizarre happenstance… which is why I suppose I remember the other incident as being the one that educated me.

Uncle P had a son and a daughter that were less than two moths older than I am. Twins. Once when we were all 4 years old, they called me into the bathroom, which I thought was very strange, because they way things were done in my immediate family was that we went potty by ourselves. I went in and the girl twin was on the floor, naked, legs splayed. Her brother was happily shoving crayons into her various orifices. They were like, come, take your pants off, let him do it to you! I was like, “uh… pass. Thanks.” Then she stood up and yelled “poopy time!” and proceeded to crap Crayola. I was like “ew” and left. I knew it was bizarre but understood so little of what I was seeing that I didn’t even know it was something worth mentioning, so, I didn’t. I suppose that the other incident with the girl in TX was more remarkable in my memory because that was when I learned about PENIS.

There was a large pine tree in the yard between my uncle’s house and the barn (yes barn) that my grandparents, mother, sister and myself had to reside in for several months while my grandparents were locating a permanent home to move into. My uncle had whacked away several of the lower boughs on one side, creating a piney cavern-like space for us kids to crawl into. There was for reasons unidentified an old piece of filthy lace under there. While her brother would watch with obvious glee, the female twin would sometimes lift up her shirt, hold the lace over her tiny baby nipple and declare it Sexy Time. Then she would insist I hold it over MY nipple, so I would do it and she would rub my nipple through it in circles and babble on a bit more about Sexy Time. Boy cousin would watch all of this with bright little eyes. I had no idea what she was babbling about,  I had never heard anything in all of my tiny life about no damn “Sexy Time” – so I just thought, again, “these are some weird kids!” I thrust the lace away, and left them; to go play by myself down by the railroad tracks, where I spent many a day getting covered in coal filth and getting spit on by grasshoppers and bit by little black, hard-bodied crickets. My mother would often say “don’t get hit by the train” – but she would never watch me. I think she was hoping that I would.

We were four fucking years old. Where did those kids learn to talk and act like that?!

If not from my uncle, then maybe from their mother? Who knows? My grandmother and my mother purport that the twins’ mother would carelessly whomp whomp whomp their tiny heads against the wooden floor when she would change their diapers. Given the current capacities of the male twin cousin, I buy it completely. I totally believe that she did that.

How do I put this delicately?  Have you heard of Big Moose Mason from the Archie comics? A regular “Duh”?


Yeah… academically speaking, old Moosey runs circles around my poor, addled, idiot cousin. My mother, who never was a kind person, used to say that trying to talk to him was like trying to talk to a simultaneously retarded and broken robot. The poor bastard has a very strange and unique way of pushing out his words. This is probably unkind, but when he called today to tell me of his father’s demise – it was the first time I’d heard his voice in over 20 years  – I could hear exactly what she meant.

Damn, his life must suck, too.

The female twin’s life sucked badly enough that one day in 2007, she took a little walk out into the forest and then shot herself in the head. Obviously, she died.

Half of my uncle’s ashes will be scattered where my grandfather – his father’s – are. The other half will be spread where his daughter’s are. He has also requested that the ashes of his beloved cat be mixed with his own before the scattering.

Why must everything be so goddamned relentlessly horrible?!

Will I ever be set free of this by any method other than my own death?

He loved this song, so I am going to post it here. I’ll say one thing for him – he always could make one hell of a mix tape.

RIP Uncle P.


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