Year 51

Well, it has been almost a year since my last blog post on Nathan's Uncle. You can blame facebook for taking over or my laziness or both. Anyway, glad to have made it through another year, and even though I gripe and complain a lot, like all old codgers, I truly am a grateful man and count my many blessings every day.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Olan!

We recently celebrated the 70th birthday of the man who, with the exception of my father, has impacted my life more than any other. Of course, my life is not the only one this great and generous man has affected. So, two weeks ago over a hundred family members and friends gathered at the Pleasant Grove Fellowship Hall for a surprise birthday party to honor a man we love, Rev. Olan Hill, Jr.


Early Saturday morning, Uncle Olan went out to breakfast and running around with his adopted son Carlos. The premise, or rather the lie, was that later Carlos would need to stop by the fellowship hall to take care of some item of business and Uncle Olan would go with him. Before Uncle Olan and Carlos arrived, the rest of us had time to visit . . . a LOT of time!

Chuckie, Aunt Mary Lou & Doyle

April & Doyle

Layna, John & Hanna

One of the conversations while we waited was about Layna's new hair color. April told us when she colored it she got it a bit darker than she had planned. Personally, I thought Layna's hair looked nice. Then Layna told us that Papa (Uncle Eugene, my daddy's older brother) said he didn't like it. I was thinking that was a pretty good sign, considering that Uncle Eugene has never been a fashion icon from whom any of us sought advice. But that wasn't all. Layna told us she said, "Well, Papa, your hair is yellow!" We all laughed so hard because we knew what she was talking about. Uncle Eugene and Aunt Mary have lots of iron in their water. Of course, Aunt Mary's hair is snow white and beautiful. Can't figure that one out. Layna, while you were at it, why didn't you mention the comb-over? NOTE: I don't have to worry about Uncle Eugene reading this because he refuses to buy a computer!

Surprise!

The family pulled it off.

The menu was Mexican, Uncle Olan's favorite.

C'mon, Chuckie, squeeze on some more cholesterol!

Mama & Baby Cruz

Daddy speaks about his best friend.

Is Javin a cutie or what?

Uncle Howie got lots of sugar.

Holli serves Uncle Olan his individual sugar-free cake.

Is that the most recent photo they could find for Carla's video tribute?

My turn to give honor to my favorite uncle.

I remember Uncle Olan’s fiftieth birthday party like it was yesterday, right here in this very room. Do you remember the “Over the Hill” theme? As Uncle Olan would say, it was just “the other day.” I have pictures in my archives and look at them occasionally. Interesting . . . I was only thirty at the time, I had hair then, and Granny Hinson was there. I guess it wasn’t yesterday, and in a few weeks it will be my turn to go over the hill, too.

I remember Uncle Olan’s retirement reception, also in this very room. Part of this tribute is excerpted from a piece I wrote for that occasion. But that was over a decade ago, and because the truth remains and it was such a well-written piece, I think it bears repeating. Besides, many of you weren’t there the first time I read it, and those of you who were, don’t remember it.

Reflecting on Uncle Olan’s life, I’m reminded of a verse from the Old Testament that speaks of orphans and strays, something both he and I can relate to.

The stranger who dwells among you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land . . . .

Leviticus 19:3

I graduated from Asunción Christian Academy in July 1976. I was excited about coming back to the States, as Mama and I boarded the plane. Uncle Olan and Aunt Mary Lou had agreed to let me stay with them until classes started at Southeastern in the fall. Several days later when Mama returned to Paraguay, she knew she had left me in good hands. I know this is Uncle Olan’s shindig, but you can’t really speak of him without mentioning Aunt Mary Lou. If it weren’t for her, he would never have become my uncle or surrogate father. So I’ll put her first, like Uncle Olan always does.


How much closer to having my own mama could I get? She loved me as her own. She signed with me to open my first checking account and taught me how to balance my checkbook. (Somewhere along the way I forgot how. I think I need a refresher course.)
She took me to Southeastern to help set up my apartment. She thought she was just caring for me that first summer until I started college. Imagine her surprise when she discovered I was coming home every weekend for the next three years. But she didn’t let on.

I was there for Christmas and birthdays, and she bought presents for me just like she did for Holli, Doyle, and Chuckie.

She says I never complained about her cooking, and I always ate what she prepared. What was there to complain about? It tasted just like home.

If I got sick at school, I knew I could come home, and Aunt Mary Lou would make me feel better. She wasn’t too proud to hold my head. (Some of you know what that means.)

She often took in my friends from Southeastern—Jack & Denise, April, Jimearl—and they came home for the weekends, too.

Her love and care for me never wavered, not even to this day.

Uncle Olan loved me, too. I wasn’t even his blood kin, but it felt like it. He paid for my meals when we went out to eat . . . of course he usually paid for everybody seated at the table.

He bought my first car, a blue Volkswagen Flintstonemobile. I attempted to pay him back until I burnt up the engine. “Oh, that’s what that little red light means . . . .”

He bought my second car, too, a yellow Plymouth Duster hot rod with a Holley carburetor you could hear from miles around. I just assumed that mechanic services came with the car, because Uncle Olan was always there to help me when it broke down. Once, when I was stranded in the parking garage at Maas Brothers in Lakeland, he came to tow me home, breaking the grill on the front of his Plymouth Volaré station wagon in the process. (Yes, that was the same Volaré we too to Oklahoma when Chuckie climbed from the front, to the middle, to the back, to the middle, to the front, the whole trip.)

Another time when I was at home and couldn’t get the Duster cranked, he left work in Tampa and drove all the way to Durant just to help me get it going. Uncle Olan, don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten. I don’t care what anybody says about his proficiency at plumbing or painting, I’ve always thought he could fix anything.

It was through Uncle Olan that I began to see the laws of the harvest come full circle, about receiving a hundredfold return in this life. He was the man who would give you the shirt off his back, unless of course he needed it to wipe up spilt varnish from Aunt Mary Lou’s white leather furniture. And he got his returns. Let’s see, there was the video camera he won at the mall, and the truck he won at Disney World, and the Caribbean cruise, and the original oil painting from a Janette Oke book . . . .

Many times I have heard Uncle Olan tell the story of how he, too, was an orphan from Oklahoma sent to California with strangers on the back of a pickup truck, how he wandered the country, how his pants were so dirty he stood them up in the corner at night, how he made his way to Florida by way of Japan, MacDill Air Force Base, Montez Green, and Jesus. How Aunt Elsie and Granny Hinson and others took him in and loved him, and ultimately how Aunt Mary Lou agreed to marry him.

This Oklahoma orphan went to college, earned two degrees, became an ordained minister, a teacher, a public school administrator, a merchant, a notary, an accountant, and local justice of the peace. People from miles around—Mexicans, migrants, transients, rednecks, and what some would call “poor white trash”—knew there was a man at 1503 Sydney Dover Rd. who would help them out, loan them a little money, prepare their taxes, or marry them in the middle of the night.

Everyone just seems to feel comfortable around Uncle Olan. Perhaps that’s why one of the multitude of scruffy little boys who always seemed to live in the house down on the corner knocked on the front door one day and asked Aunt Mary Lou, “Can Chuckie’s daddy come out and play?”

I recall a phone conversation I had with April about Uncle Olan. I don’t remember exactly when it was, but it was “the other day.” I don’t remember our conversation verbatim, but I remember talking about how much we loved him, how he was always so positive and lifted our spirits when we were around him, and how no one else could have joined our family and become such a vital part more than Uncle Olan.

Yes, he loved me then. He loves me now. How do I know? Because every time he sees me, he puts his arms around me, kisses my cheek, and says, “I love you, babe.” He still sees me as his own, and he is mine as well.

Happy birthday, Uncle Olan! I hope you have seventy more. And Aunt Mary Lou, thank you for snagging this great man!

The clothesline pictures—some were prettier than others!

The "big" gift from the family. He thought he was getting an iPhone.

Heath stopped by near the end of the party.

Happy 7th Birthday Nathan!

Seven years ago today was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I became Nathan's Uncle. I did not know then how this little boy would change and refocus my life, but he has become the center of our family, and DeeDee, Granddaddy, Todd, Carla, and I all revolve around him. He has brought so much joy to our family, and we cherish the day he entered our lives.

This year on special occasions I have been posting poems or other pieces I have written in the past in tribute to members of my family. Today is no different. This is a poem I wrote about Nathan on his first birthday. It describes so many of his behaviors at the time. We miss the baby, and we miss the one-year old, but we really are enjoying our big seven-year old!

Who’s That Boy?

Who’s that boy with the blazing hair,
And a pair of big blue eyes?
That’s our boy, with six new teeth,
And a smile sure to hypnotize.

Who’s that boy giving everybody sugar,
With a “hmm” and a pat, pat, pat?
That’s Mama’s boy, with the stinky diaper,
Now what do you think about that?

Who’s that boy who can feed himself,
And always wants some more?
That’s Daddy’s boy saying, “Da-da-da,”
And dropping bread balls all over the floor.

Who’s that boy with his ankles crossed,
Sucking his upside-down passie?
That’s Grandmother’s boy, with a giggle and a squeal,
Snatching off earrings and glasses.

Who’s that boy rubbing his eyes,
And nodding his sleepy head?
That’s Grandaddy’s boy snuggled asleep,
On his shoulder ready for bed.

Who’s that boy reading a book,
And singing in the microphone?
That’s Uncle Howie’s boy reading and singing,
As if he were already full-grown.

Who’s that boy with a prophet’s name,
Whose middle name is Todd?
That’s Jesus’ boy we all know,
And his name means “gift of God.”

Who’s that boy turning one year old,
Who loves to open and close the door?
Nathan is that boy, and he changed our lives,
Though he’ll always be our baby, the boy is not a baby, anymore.

—Uncle Howie
July 18, 2002

Happy 7th Birthday, Bubby!

Did you know you are my favorite nephew?

I love YOU the MOST!

Uncle Howie

Jamaica 2.1: Nathan's Pre-Birthday Party

This was my second trip to Jamaica, and I know I will write at least two posts, hence the title "Jamaica 2.1." This trip happened as unexpectedly as the first. I actually had no plans to go until I found a good ticket price online. Another influential factor was the fact that Mama and Daddy were already there, and I knew how much Mama wanted us all to be together again. Like last time, Carla, Todd, and I were able to surprise our parents and Nathan again.

Thursday evening we celebrated Nathan's birthday because we won't be there on July 18 when he turns seven. Todd grilled pork chops, per Nathan's request, and Mama and Carla rounded out his menu with garlic mashed potatoes, DeeDee's salad, and brownies. Todd also roasted garlic and grilled bacon-wrapped jalapeño and cream cheese poppers.

Todd grilling on the balcony.

DeeDee and Carla in the kitchen.
Note: DeeDee matches the curtains, and Carla matches the frig.

Making a wish.

Blowing out the candle.

Nathan was very patient during the meal and brownie sundaes. Finally, he asked about his presents. We started teasing him that there were no presents because it wasn't his real birthday yet. He didn't believe us for a second. In fact, he announced, "I'm gonna go look." He started opening cabinet doors in the kitchen, and it didn't take him long to find the hidden cache. Of all the presents, the Nintendo Wii was his favorite. DeeDee, Granddaddy, Todd, Carla, and I all pitched in on that gift, but it was worth it.

Something Mama would never have let me do.

Okay.

Granddaddy, Bubby & DeeDee

"Excited" would be an understatement.

Do you think he liked his Wii?

Do you think Uncle Howie liked his sugar?

DeeDee and Bubby Wii bowling.

To read my sister's account of Nathan's birthday party, click here.

Happy Birthday, Sister!

My sister is a woman of many talents and amazing strength. I guess she inherited those gifts from our mother, well . . . except for the athletic ability, that is. Quite frankly, I'm not sure where she got that gift. I was six years old when she was born, and I still remember the day.

We have traveled the western hemisphere together, living on two continents, four countries, and countless houses. We even shared our first passport. (Now that's a picture I'll have to find.) Through thick and thin we have always been close.

I know in all the hoopla on my blog surrounding Nathan, it may seem like my sister doesn't get as much attention, but I will never forget that without her I never would have become Nathan's Uncle.

This is a poem I wrote for Carla on her birthday six years ago. Since I haven't written a new one, and this one has never appeared on the blog, I thought this would be a good time to share it.

SISTER

She’s a lady
A classic work of art
She’s a singer and a worshiper
Anointed, set apart

She’s an athlete
It all stands to reason
Volleyball, basketball, soccer
Voted MVP every season

She’s a teacher
Imparting what she knows
Science was her craft
The first career she chose

She’s a lover
Of God, her family, and friends
And they love her in return
With a love that never ends

She’s a servant
A caregiver and a nurse
A gifted, broken vessel
Putting others first

She’s a daughter
Roland and Evelyn’s heir
She’s a wife
The answer to Todd’s prayer

She’s a mother
As if she always knew
Diapers, bottles, and lullabies
Her dream at last came true

She’s a giver
Of Nathan, my nephew
Since once was not enough
Soon she’ll be a mother times two

She’s a friend
When others walk away
A confidant who knows me
Yet loves me anyway

She’s my sister
The world’s best indeed
The only one I have
And the only one I need

—For Carla
June 14, 2002

Happy birthday, Carla! You know I love you so . . . .

Kelsey's 13th Birthday

Layna's sixteenth birthday party was Friday night, and on Saturday we helped Kelsey (Kendra's oldest daughter) celebrate becoming a teenager. Family and friends young and old gathered at Medard Park and enjoyed a delicious lunch catered by Sonny's Barbecue.

The candle wouldn't stay lit!

Finally!

A mountain of gifts.

A truly gracious, grateful, and sweet young lady.

I just liked Carla's expression in this picture.

Daddy & Mama

Hailey & April

Sweatyhead!

The boy loves to play!

Show-off!

Following are some bonus pictures Kendra sent me of Kelsey's special day.

Uncle Roland prays over Kelsey.

My sweaty nephew.

Bailey, Thaddeus, Nathan, Logan, and Jordan

Bubby