I wrote about my
Uncle Arthur in the hope that I might win potato chips.
Or crisps as they call them here.
It's currently on page two....
...I don't know how long it will stay there.
I'm not sure there is anything more noble to aim for than the winning of potato chips.
I had a word limit. Which didn't sit well with me because I couldn't really write about him properly.
Uncle Arthur lived on a little Island, off of a bigger Island...of the West Coast of Canada.
We spent weekends there....because it was beautiful. And my Dad was 'olde tyme' friends with him. I don't think they met in England...where they were both from...but worked together in Canada for awhile. Designing chainsaws.
I DON'T KNOW. I didn't know that was a real job either...although I suppose someone has to do it.
Uncle Arthur had a stutter. And was probably the most intelligent man I have ever come across. It was like his mouth couldn't keep up with his mind.
He wore shorts 365 days a year. In my entire life...he never wore trousers once. Not even to my Dad's funeral. He wore shorts.
He was the only one who stood up at the funeral and spoke when they asked people to share their memories of him. It meant alot to me.
He had tanned skin, and white hair.
His house was a collection of stuffed birds, eggs, lizards, flowers, dogs....so many dogs. Always Irish Setters....beautiful dogs with such clear distinct personalities. They were in a kennel on the property...back in the trees....and came into the house in turns. One, always followed him around. No matter what.
He had an aviary. It was full of parrots. Bald Eagles. Falcons. Doves.
He smuggled the parrots from Mexico. In a sack. Every year when he drove down for 3 months at a time.
He took the Bald Eagles from nests and raised them.
He stole the eggs of falcons from other nests, and raised then bred them. His son now breeds them from that stock...and sells them to Saudi Arabian princes.
When the eggs hatch they spend weeks waking up every 2 hours to feed the babies.
I have no idea where the hell the doves came from. But I'm going to guess...stolen.
He took lizards home as well.
When they were climbing into a nest once his other son fell and hit a live electrical line and almost died. He was burnt on over 80% of his body.
There was a rope bridge that he had strung over a gorge...between two cliff faces on the property. It overlooked the ocean. I never used it. But he used it every day when setting off for his walks.
One day Uncle Arthur left the toaster on then went for a hike. The house burnt down.
His wife left and moved to the larger Island. They stayed friends. Her name was Rosemary and she was a sweet little lady with white hair. He moved into an old sea captains cottage on the small Island. It was full of strange things when he moved in.
He filled it with dead birds, lizards. Grave goods from Mexico.
He was a bit of a grave robber as it turned out.
He could play the guitar and sing. He spoke fluent Spanish.
He owned the same VW van for the entire time I was alive and knew him. And drove it to Mexico and back EVERY year.
When he moved into his new house, he found out the next door neighbor was a man named Art Wark.....who he worked with...with my Dad... DESIGNING CHAINSAWS. I'm going to guess that beat some odds.
They all also worked with my Grandpa. My mother's father. That's how my parents met. That is four men designing chainsaws in the same place.
*SHRUG*
He used to call me 'Hollybush'....which I liked.
He was kind. And thoughtful. And always brought me back little things from the people he lived with in Mexico.
In the villages and caves.
When he died, he left me £5,000 in his will.
He was my adoptive uncle. And the most eccentric interesting man I have come across.
My father worse a tie to McDonalds...yet loved this man. My father didn't once...in my entire life....wear shorts. Not one day. And was a close fried of Uncle Art's.
I think that speaks volumes.
