These are bittersweet posts.
I clearly don't get my kicks from family members passing away...but I enjoy reflecting on them, the family, a legacy, and life. It's a time of moving on, not just for my uncle, but for all of us associated. We, myself and I'm sure my family, are relieved that Jack isn't suffering anymore--no shit. But we're sad he's passed. He's the first of the brothers. Jack, the oldest, Jerry, the middle son, and Rick, my dad...he's the youngest. He was supposed to be a girl. Grandma already had her name picked out: Sasha, or someshit. Jack was a character. For good, bad, in between, or somewhere else. As my Uncle Jerry told me today, he did things his way--and that's the song that's going to be played at his funeral. Although I'm uncertain Jack was a Sinatra fan. I don't know a ton about Jack's life aside from it was something out of a Waylon Jennings song, or maybe a 70s not-made-for-TV cowboy movie of some sort. No one's a saint. Even those who pass away "Godly" have skeletons. Jack left it all on the table. This is who I am. Sorry. Maybe sorry. Sometimes sorry. Not sorry. At the end of it all, he was a good man with a good heart and I am happy that he was my uncle. There are enough Uncle Jack stories to fill up a dozen blog posts. He was one of a kind. But how he affected me most is something pretty special. Jack was a fly fisherman back when fly fishing was nothing. Back in the 70s, nobody gave a shit really about the sport. But Jack was good. He taught my dad how to, and my dad became really good. They tied their own flies and crafted a rod or two. A couple fly rods, a canoe, couple packs of Marlboro Reds, and some hip waders and the trout living in the North Fork of the White River were doomed. A few years later, I was invited...sans Marlboros. Dad and I met Jack at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop at the edge of a rock bluff just down the road from the river. Jack had constructed a fold-away canoe that fit nicely in his pick-up bed. He was handy like that, to say the least. I damn near tipped it over when I got in the middle--rookie move. We launched from Steel Bridge and paddled downstream to a nice bend. It was cold, the fish weren't biting, and we somehow got wet--probably my fault. But a few nice trout were wrangled, and I had goddamn amazing time. I may have been 13 or so. My uncles, as well as their friends and others, have been so incredibly generous during my younger years for letting me tag along on fishing trips. I've always been the only kid invited, and Uncle Jack helped with that passion. Uncle Jack was an incredible artist. His paintings and sculptures have been seen across the Ozark midwest, Missouri and Arkansas. Might not sound like much, but you have to see them to believe them. Jack was never one for recognition or dollars, he just loved his art. His wood carvings of fish ended up in the Bass Pro Shops Museum in Springfield, and are remarkable pieces. Jack fished fantastically, was in the military, was an accomplished artist, in the rodeo, a horse shoer, built his own house from sticks and mud (basically), lived everywhere, was a great writer, and had two million ridiculous stories that were all true that I could never retell to do them any justice whatsoever. I always heard when I was younger that I had a lot of Uncle Jack's spirit in me. We were a lot a like in some ways. But to be careful, because that might not be a great thing if it gets too far. I'm not sure how I've fared. The legend of Uncle Jack is pretty much all that I know. All that I've been told. In my eyes, nearly 50yr old eyes, he lived the life of an outlaw. Maybe an outlaw country song. Or maybe a Frank Sinatra song. He had four children, one whom I'm close with. He had two brothers, both whom I'm close with. And with his passing, I'm hoping that brings us all closer together, because, shit man, it's family. Families can be complicated. When someone passes away, be it their time or not, it's time for us all to come together and be cool. Like Fonzie. Say "I love you". Because you do, not because we're manly men that don't say that shit. Say what you mean. And dammit, I loved Uncle Jack. That rogue, that drifter, that savant, that outlaw, that devil, that soldier, that pescador, that thorn, that artist, that teacher, that heart. Certain things run In the family. If Uncle Jack weren't Uncle Jack, I'm not sure I'd be Matt Todd. And although he'd never met him, I'm not sure Hank Todd would be Hank Todd. Certain things run in the family, man. We're a strong group of Todds. We have strong, glowing spirits. Hearts of gold, with a bit of mischievousness. And remarkable torsos. Jack was one of a kind, but also one of us. Rest easy, Uncle Jack.
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AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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