My greatest uncle

Yesterday my Uncle Toby turned 94. That he's this old is hard for me to believe, but I'm very glad he's still with us, and is alert, reasonably healthy, and still very connected to all of us in the family.

I've probably had a mad crush on Uncle Toby since the first time I can remember seeing him in his Army Air Corps uniform during World War II. That's what he wore when he married my aunt, and there are photos of him in his uniform standing on in front of my first home in San Francisco, holding a toddler in his arms that was me.

I thought he was the most handsome man in the world. He was--and still is--tall, slender, with fair skin and dark hair that grayed over the years. He always worked at staying in shape. I can remember as a child watching him do the Royal Canadian Air Force Basic Exercises every morning. It wasn't until years later that I realized all those exercises were attempts to mitigate back pain relating to injuries he suffered from the wartime crash of the B-24 Liberator bomber he crewed.  I never once heard him complain. Here's an early-day photo of Uncle Toby and Aunt Doris with me and my brother Eric. It was shot in Ellensburg, Washington, in about 1946.

Uncle Toby was a cradle Catholic in Seattle's most Catholic neighborhood of Capitol Hill. He's lived there all his life, except for his wartime service. Even today, he lives less than 10 blocks from the house in which he was born.  And he remains devoted to the church, in particular St. Joe's, the parish of which he's been a member forever. Here he is  in 1949 with my mom, who's holding our cousin Chris Blundell. Chris is the baby being baptized, and Uncle Toby is his godfather, welcoming one of the family members into the church he so deeply loves.

Despite his dedication to Catholicism, Uncle Toby's never been one of those judgmental moralistic folks toward those of us who have strayed from what we were all taught to call ``Holy Mother the Church.'' Uncle Toby's love and acceptance of all of us washes over us like a tidal wave. He doesn't quite get my Pagan life, but he tried hard to understand it, and has never said anything negative about who I am and what I do.

His piety is the stuff of both legend and a few family jokes. He's been known to say the rosary aloud while on his exercise bike, and everyone's favorite story is about the time Aunt Doris sent him to the liquor store and caught him sneaking off to mass instead. Until recently he was the one who would pick up the elderly and disabled and drive them to church for daily mass. Now, most often, he's the one who's driven.

When I was a young child living on the 10 acres where my father built a house out in Snohomish County, Uncle Toby and Aunt Doris, who were still childless at the time, would often come out to pick up us kids and take us on a Sunday ride, which is what people used to do before NFL football began owning Sundays.  On one of those rides he took us for a fried chicken dinner at one of the very first restaurants I can remember. This was back way before drive-ins and fast food, so it was a big deal to take a bunch of little kids into a restaurant.

Uncle Toby could--and probably still can--whistle across his lower teeth. Whenever I hear someone whistle that way, I am instantly reminded of him. And he'd always tease me about my name, reversing consanants, and calling me ``Slictoria Vind.''

My funniest memory of Uncle Toby is from just a few years ago, when the last in his family's series of dachsunds was still alive. The smoke alarm in the condo where he and Aunt Doris live is ultra-sensitive, and whenever it would go off, the dog would stand underneath, yapping and yapping. Whenever Aunt Doris started to broil something, she knew the smoke alarm would go off, and that shortly thereafter, the yapping would start. So she'd yell to  Uncle Toby to get into position. He'd stand under the smoke alarm, holding a big bath towel, with the dog at his feet. The alarm would go off, the dog would start barking, and Uncle Toby would then begin waving the towel up and down in efforts to waft the smoke away.  He'd stop to take a rest, the smoke alarm would go off again, the dog would begin anew the yapping, and Aunt Doris would yell at him to start waving the towel again.  

Here's a photo of Uncle Toby, Aunt Doris, and the infamous dog.
 

To say my aunt is a dedicated garage sale patron is to make a huge understatement. Nearly everything in her house is from garage sales, and that includes some of Uncle Toby's clothes. I remember seeing him one time in a pink polo shirt with a knit collar, and, for some strange reason, a puff-paint flower in the middle of his stomach.  I asked him why the flower, and he said, ``oh, it's one of your aunt's garage-sale finds. It had a stain, so she covered it up with this flower.''

I Googled my uncle today, and I found the oddest thing. Apparently a lot of old newspapers have now been scanned into the Google database. There was a page from the Ellensburg Daily Record, with a society-column mention that ``Lt. Robert E. Tobin Jr. of McCord Field was a guest of Mr. and Mrs. George Mead at their home over the weekend.'' The date of the newspaper was July 23, 1945, so I assume he was there courting my Aunt Doris, whom he married in December of that year. 

When my siblings and I were growing up, things were very much not OK at home. We've often said that without our aunts and uncles, we wouldn't have survived, or at least wouldn't have grown up safely. The aunts and uncles on both sides of the family were the ones who gave us unconditional love and approval, and who provided us with the moral compass we needed. And no one was more present--or dear--to us than Aunt Doris and Uncle Toby. We always knew they'd set a place for us at dinner, listen to our stories, and just make us feel safe and loved. Here's a favorite photo I shot of Uncle Toby and Aunt Doris in the summer of 1989. They're standing at the roof garden of the Inn at the Market, right above the Pike Place Market, a favorite place for everyone in the family to visit.

Every time I see Uncle Toby now, I fear it may be the last time. So I always kiss his whiskery cheek and remind him of how much we love him and how grateful we are that he has always been a presence in our life.  This photo, which I took a month ago, is what Uncle Toby looks like today. He's had a few nasty falls, and a small heart attack, but for now, he's still with us. And I am very glad.

Comments

[Adam]

I loved reading this. Thank you for sharing, Aunt Slictoria.

[Hollyheartfree]

what a lovely and loving post.

[Tim Tobin]

What a fine tribute to my dad. Thanks Victoria.
Tim Tobin