Elegy for my Uncle Duane

 

On December the 6th, Mom did a rare thing and text messaged me.  

"Don't want to spoil your weekend but just got news Duane has lung cancer.  I talked to him tonight.  He said the doctors give him 18 to 20 mo.  He has chosen not to do chemo as they don't offer much additional time with it.  We can talk more about it when you get home."

Daniel and I were in Boston, just finding our seats for the Milwaukee Bucks to take on the Boston Celtics at TD Gardens.  We flew in that day for a "father/son weekend" and were enjoying the first of several experiences I had hoped he could recall when his anxiety and ADHD made life difficult, if not desperate.  They aren't a cure, but if he really gets down, I want him to know I will do anything with him.

My Aunt Rhonda passed away suddenly at the age of 70 after a botched surgery to repair her bowel, when surgical mesh from a previous hernia surgery became problematic.  No one expected the surgeon to nick her bowel, resulting in sepsis, falling into a coma, and death within a few days.  Recovering from knee surgery a day or two prior, I was unable to attend her funeral, and not being there left me feeling guilty.  Oftedahls don't miss family events.  Not something like this.  Now Duane has a terminal illness and I am again reeling, not knowing what to say or do for a stoic who never complained a day in his life and wouldn't reach out to ask for help.  That's just not how Zinglers operate.  They are manly men.

I do have words to express what he and Rhonda have meant to me in my lifetime.  As a five year old, I served as ring bearer with my same-age cousin Lisa in their wedding.  I recall stories of being terrified that I was marrying Lisa, her perpetually chapped lips from licking them.  Someone finally reassured me that it was Duane who was the actual groom, and I think everything else worked out fine.  

Rhonda and Duane almost made it to their 50 year anniversary before she made her heaven journey.  The next couple of years were hard on Duane, and he retreated to their home and land to continue the quiet routines he enjoyed: woodworking, mowing grass, rising early to watch the growing light of a sunrise and seeing the birds visiting their feeders off the back deck.  He gave away everything but the essentials for bachelor living, needing to simplify keeping a tidy home and giving him fewer reminders of the woman he loved so much of his life was gone.  Rhonda forced Duane out of his comfort zone.  A lot.  She enjoyed people, conversation, and being on the move.  Duane would do anything for her, and she asked a lot of him.  That went for their two boys and their families, too.  When he retired, they lassoed him into providing childcare for the grandchildren, and I am not sure he was given much of a choice in the matter.  What I do know is that the children were blessed by knowing and appreciating their grandfather and each has memories that will be kept and retold to their own children.

While I was really young, they lived in Norfolk, Virginia where Duane was stationed in the Navy.  They returned to Tomah and lived for awhile in a mobile home set at the base of a 150 ft bluff, common in the Driftless Area of southwestern Wisconsin.  Duane had explored and hunted on this land along Brandy Creek as a boy.  I thought it was the most beautiful place in the world.  Maybe it still is.  Several years later, a double wide prefab home was set in the trailer's place, and then Brian was born.  Later still, Greg came, although lung complications almost took him from the start.  I think my Grandpa Vern's prayers pulled him through, just like it pulled him through the Battle of the Bulge and imprisonment in a Nazi POW camp during World War II.

It wasn't until I was in middle and high school that I realized how much Rhonda and Duane began to mean to me.  I was in full adolescent mode, always moody and eternally annoyed by my siblings and younger cousins during visits to Dad's family in Tomah.  Whenever possible, I elected to stay at Rhonda and Duane's house, knowing that Duane preferred a quiet, serene environment.  They were also the only non-smokers in the family, and I was growing increasingly sensitive to the smell tobacco smoke left on my clothes and in my hairdo.  I would often sleep in their basement late into the morning, undisturbed by morning light and the careful patter of Duane's feet as he made coffee, then eased into a chair by the patio door to watch songbirds.  Soon he was out the door and working outside or at the Veteran's Administration hospital where he split the year between snow removal and golf course maintenance.

Although I was confident I was headed to college and a career in teaching, Duane described the routines of working outdoors and it had an appeal.  I later worked at a private golf course for two years in college, I was proud to have something he and I shared in common.  Duane was a man of few words, but this is something we could share.  Hearing his stories, I began to better appreciate keeping grass short and green, enough to get the attention of the course superintendent. Before I left to start my first job teaching music near Marshfield, he said "if the teaching thing doesn't work out, let me know and I will put in a good word and get you into the Penn State turfgrass management program."  It was was one of the few compliments he ever gave, and it taught me that showing up and taking interest in your work gets noticed.

There are two of Duane's qualities that I will always aspire to be more of:

An incredible listener

I can't remember many times when Duane captivated us with a story.  In fact, much of Duane's life is a complete mystery to me.  But when we are together, he sits close by, cup of coffee in hand, and his eyes are fixed on you and he smiles and is quick to nod in agreement when I empty my heart and laugh with any learning experience that I stumbled into.  We have walked different pathways in separate forests, but Duane has a way of reassuring you that you will reach a clearing and be better for the journey.

An early bird

I have always known Duane to rise early in the morning, and to politely excuse himself from any evening activity to hit the sack.  As a teenager, I never understood why an adult would go to bed hours before the evening news.  During summer, the sun wouldn't have even set and Duane was retiring for the day.  Now approaching 60, I have grown to appreciate resetting my circadian rhythm to rise before the sun, making a pot of hot coffee to accompany the slow change of light that kickstart the robin songs and finds whitetail deer grazing on spilled birdseed below the feeders behind the house.  Starting and ending each day with a glide sure beats being launched from bed by a buzzing alarm and dragging myself to bed only after completing schoolwork or scrolling the day's news on my phone.  Sleep isn't the only thing that changes in quality with Duane's routine.  My entire day operates with a more consistent flow, and I no longer fight to stay awake after completing the dinner dishes.  Thirty minutes to an hour of reading, preferably paper, not on a device, and I feel ready to brush my teeth and fall right asleep.  In the morning, I don my slippers, go downstairs to make coffee and just watch the sun come up while planning for the day.  An hour later, Becki is awake and I start breakfast that we share while completing the New York Times word puzzles and talk about any news headlines or a late night text message from one the kids, received after we have entered dreamland.  Whether we leave for work or just settle into writing, painting, or puttering around with a house or yard project, the easy start to the morning makes us more positive and grateful.

All of this has been achievable as I approached and glided into retirement.  It was Duane who demonstrated what a fine life this could be.  During most periods of my life, I was working towards being "the guy who ...".  I went through phases to be the best teacher, principal, father, technologist, outdoorsman, sailer, kayak instructor, Christian..., on and on.  I recognized different men in my life who I admired, and I wanted to emulate them.  After fifty or so years, I ran out of men I thought I wanted to be and decided I need to work harder at being me.  I find it somehow more of a challenge, as I notice unattractive traits in me much more than other men.

Duane is another guy I wanted to be.  Duane has everyone's respect for quietly supporting his family, loving deeply through deeds, not words.  If I had to name one person who has the Zen art of "just being" down pat, I think I would choose Duane.  His values as a Christian, husband, father, grandfather, and veteran are beyond reproach.  No one would say he was perfect, but I think few people would even try to list his faults, either.  He is a good man.  He is the kind of man I have always quietly aspired to be, even if I have inherited the outspoken, frenetic, dramatic Oftedahl genes instead of the Zingler ones.  I will keep working to be better, in the image he has given to me.  

When he leaves to be with Aunt Rhonda again, the room won't be any quieter.  I just know that I we will all be looking around for him, smiling, gazing at the predawn activity at a bird feeder, or when the clock reads seven o'clock and sleep first begins to tug at us to set work aside and call it a day.  It was a really good one.