Flyover People: Uncle Jay
Cheryl Unruh
Originally published 02:08 p.m., April 29, 2008
Updated 02:08 p.m., April 29, 2008
When the Chihuahua left his lap, Jay brushed off the front of his robe.
“There’s hair on my robe and I don’t know if it’s the dog’s hair — or mine,” he laughed.
The sunset through the windows highlighted the few wispy, white strands remaining on Jay’s head. His short, salt-and-pepper hair was gone.
Dave and I drove to Arkansas a few weeks ago to visit my mom, Aunt Norma and Uncle Jay. Jay, at 69, was feeling pretty good when we stopped by their house that Friday evening.
It had been about 17 months since the diagnosis: esophageal cancer. As a retired radiologist, he read the future on his own X-rays, but seemed to be accepting of the outcome — whatever that may be.
He told me it was a three-way contest now, between the cancer, the chemotherapy and him. The chemo was shrinking the tumors, but he was exceedingly thin and weak.
Jay’s the one, the Arkansas native, who could not imagine why anyone would choose to live on the plains. He’s always made fun of Kansas in a way that made me laugh. That was our game, his and mine.
One of his classic lines is about a painting of Norma’s. Her painting of an old converted school bus depressed him, he said, because the surrounding emptiness reminded him of Kansas. “It looks like people went out to pick wheat, their bus broke down, and they’ve lost all hope.”
I was pleased when Jay mentioned the NCAA basketball tournament. “I was cheering for Kansas right along with you,” he grinned.
The North Carolina team had clobbered his Razorbacks and watching KU beat the Tar Heels gave him satisfaction.
That evening, Jay told stories as usual. With widespread flooding in Arkansas on the news, he told about the time he took his young boys canoeing on the Current River when it was swollen. He didn’t realize until they were on the water how dangerous the situation was. “If one of those canoes had tipped, there’s no way I could’ve saved any of us, the river was just too strong,” he said.
As with the hundreds of other Jay stories I’ve leaned into over the years, I caught every word delivered in his deep voice, his Southern drawl. And with Jay, I was always prepared for a laugh; he offered plenty.
At family gatherings, he and I have naturally converged. Whenever I’ve felt a need to leave a room of chattering people, I’ve stepped outside and found Jay, smoking a cigarette.
Jay has long been one of my favorite people. He’s intelligent, self-assured, a decision-maker, a family anchor.
Two years ago when my mom was in the hospital in Hot Springs, as I prepared to return to Kansas, Jay handed me $50. “Put that in your jeans,” he said.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Traveling money,” he said, and changed the subject.
Jay had always taken care of me, not with cash, but with his calm and steady presence.
For instance, I could always relax in the backseat when he was at the wheel, knowing he could bend that Trailblazer around any curve the Arkansas Highway Department threw at him.
On that Friday night of our visit, Jay was weak, but was doing OK. Saturday evening, he felt miserable and was transported to the emergency room. When we left him there, he seemed to be perking up a bit.
An urgent call came from the hospital Sunday morning. As we stepped into his room, he smiled and greeted each of us by name. About an hour later, he was gone.
Life has many goodbyes. After a heartbreaking loss, we gather our wits, our resources; we carry on. And our embedded memories sustain us.
The night before Jay’s memorial service, I was happy to hear laughter fill the house as we shared family memories.
The master storyteller was gone, but the stories remained. As did the laughter.
Jay had taught us well.
“Flyover People” is online at www.flyoverpeople.net.
• Cheryl Unruh can be reached at cheryl@flyoverpeople.net.
coldhardtruth (anonymous) says...
I was wondering what a "Flye" or "Flyeover" was, so I clicked, and I found out it's just people don't know how to proofread their titles before posting them.
April 29, 2008 at 3:50 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )