A Balance

The year after Auntie died was tough.  Imagine my mother escorted by police to the three-story Victorian brick boarding house in Portland that held so many Sunday memories.  She had come to rescue my uncle from some “friends” who had sold his antiques, got him drunk enough that he signed over his property including the “Blue Bell” a vintage Dodge Sedan.  My mother sought legal counsel for her beloved uncle by marriage, but was told there was nothing that we could do.   It does not seem just.  All that was left for my mother to do was to save my uncle Gene.  He went to live with his sister in Sanford and never saw his home again.

Gene grew up in Livermore Falls, Maine.  As a young man, he was awarded a full scholarship to Bowdoin College, but passed it up to help his family on the farm.  When Auntie met him he was a door-to-door Fuller Brush salesman.  After a time, they opened a health food store in Biddeford, but my earliest memories were Sunday visits to their home on Cumberland Avenue in Portland.  Sometimes we ventured a few blocks to Deering Oaks to feed the ducks, took a few terrifying rides in the “Blue Bell” (my uncle was a wild driver), played cards, dominoes or gathered around a puzzle with what seemed like a zillion pieces.  When I was about eight years old, I remember my uncle had purchased a contraption that would roll cigarettes.  It included the filter, papers and tobacco.  One quick demonstration, and I was rolling cigarettes for him. (Oh, God! Please forgive me.)

Gene was part of our family.  Regularly, as a young mother, I would drive four hours each way to take him to my home for a week’s vacation at Christmas time.  Everyone loved Gene and Gene loved everyone. At ninety years old, he was laid back enjoying the high-energy antics of my four year old son, Sam as he crawled all over his uncle. Gene was spontaneous, energetic and full of adventure.  In the biting cold of December, he hiked through a stony trail veined with roots to see an osprey nest and marveled at the experience.

Despite his gentle temperment, he was fiercely competitive when his handmade checkerboard was placed before him. The board was handcrafted by Gene’s brother and given to him as a gift.  He brought it everywhere with him, always ready for a game. He held no mercy for anyone of any age who wanted to play.  He was ruthless against each opponent. As a six year old my mother would give me a little talk about good sportsmanship.  The unanticipated, but inevitable multiple jumps in one move that wiped out all my checker pieces would bring me to tears each time.  This did not deter Gene and his quest to win. In the decades of recorded games, I never beat my uncle. Before each game, I was reminded of this hard fact and he refused to divulge his strategies.

Auntie and Gene balanced and complimented each other. Gene was gentle, laid back while Auntie was feisty and assertive.  She was never afraid to speak up for what was right.  The years following Auntie’s passing were hard for all of us, especially for Gene.  We never realized it until after Auntie was gone, but she was Gene’s protector.