"Uncle Bug"

Times are tough for a lot of folks these days and appear to be getting worse for a whole lot more. I don’t think it is going to get much better anytime soon.

As I was pondering our rather sad state of affairs, the notion of “hope” crept into my mind for no apparent reason. It took me back to a time when I had just graduated from college, filled with myself and my newfound perspective on the world. I was as offensive as any new college graduate ever thought of being. I didn’t just think I had all the answers, I knew I did!

I lived in San Francisco and was an avid reader of a newspaper column in the San Francisco Chronicle under the heading “The Fearless Spectator” written by Charles McCabe. He wasn’t just good, he was damned good. The title of one of his columns was “The Hopelessness of Hope.” I can only recall the title, but I was impressed with the absolute certainty of what he wrote. Given the time and the point in my life, it must have fit in with so many erroneous preconceived notions I held at the time.

In those days, there was only one political party and it was pure Republican. I was one of its most devout. I believed there was no excuse for anyone not making it in this world. All they had to do was put their shoulder to the wheel, work hard and, “voila,” success was theirs to behold! After all, I came from poverty and I made it. But, I conveniently overlooked one very important point. I was the product of the G.I. Bill.

Without the G.I. Bill, when I was discharged from the United States Navy I would simply have returned to that from which I came. Life just isn’t that black and white. My Uncle Bug would have summed me up as being one of those people in life he would liked to have “bought for what he was worth and sold for what he thought he was worth.” There are a lot of those kinds walking around these days.

Uncle Bug was one of six kids who grew up in abandoned cavalry quarters known as Old Bedlam at Fort Laramie, Wyoming during the Great Depression. My Grandfather gave some of his kids nicknames. Early in his life, his youngest son, Clyde, was dubbed with the nickname “My Little Potato Bug.” The name stuck and everyone called him “Bug.” From the time I can remember, I knew him only as Uncle Bug, although later in life, he came to be known as my Uncle Clyde. Somehow, there was something much more endearing about “Uncle Bug,” and that is the way I want to remember him.

Uncle Bug had polio as a child and never fully regained the use of his right arm, so he would have to lift his right arm with his left hand in order to make use of it. It was old hat to him, so no one gave it much thought. He had a broad smile, a hearty laugh and his eyes were as blue as the Wyoming sky under which he was born. His optimism was boundless and equally infectious.

Uncle Bug married a woman who stuck by him through thick and thin. When his family came along, I was well on the way to my teens, so I often had the rare privilege of being his side-kick. He drove a black Willys automobile. I don’t recall that too many of them were made, but he just knew it was one of the best damned cars ever made. The interior was heavy with the pungent smell of cigarette smoke and dust. He would stop by and say, “C’mon Bob, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” Off we would go to the Sideboard Café and I would grimace a bit at his teasing humor and revel in his native wisdom all over again. There must have been some miraculous potion in those cups of coffee, because I always felt better and was tinged with a bit of hope I didn’t have before.

At the time, I didn’t quite realize how tough life was for him and his family. Because of the crippling effects of polio and not having a formal education, his options for earning a decent living were limited. They weren’t just poor, they lived in abject poverty. However, Uncle Bug never allowed his lot in life to dampen his spirit. He gave the term “hope” a whole new meaning and it was contagious, believe me. I cannot even begin to recall how many times his hope took me out of my own poverty, if only for just a fleeting few moments. It was a tonic I badly needed and could not have lived without.

With the passage of time I moved away and rarely saw him. When I did, that same radiant smile and words to the effect that “things will definitely get better,” would ring in my ears. He died in his sixties and, with his passing, over the years I was blessed with a newfound sense of my own imperfections and a badly needed measure of humility.

I respect anyone’s right to believe whatever he chooses. There isn’t one religion that can be empirically proven. Ultimately, all take us back to the one certainty common to them all. They are all based on nothing more than a simple belief. That applies to atheists, as well. However, I have noticed, among those who never doubt their own system of beliefs, there is a certain contempt for those who do. At best, a whole slew of us are in for one heck of a surprise when we cross over the line from this mortal life to whatever lies beyond.

Today, and throughout the ages, hope is all that has sustained multitudes of people in despair. Without that simple belief, they would have nothing. And all of the well-intentioned true believers have no right to deprive anyone of hope.

I choose to believe, when it appears all is lost, hope is God’s way of saying to us, “Hang in there. I am with you.” To that, Uncle Bug would have added, “and things will get better.”

I envision Uncle Bug as having gone up to the Pearly Gates and being greeted by his Maker with these words, “C’mon in Uncle Bug. I have a very special place for you.” And when Uncle Bug answered with “Why would I have a special place here or anywhere?” the response would have been “Because you never abandoned hope.”

When hope is all a person has, no one, not even the most well-intentioned zealots, have the right to deprive anyone of hope, no matter how faint the glimmer. It is the worst form of cruelty I can imagine, unmatched by any other.


Cowboy Bob
April 6, 2008