Thanks, Unk

In a meeting the other day, discussion wandered to memorable gifts. To a person, it wasn’t so much nice stuff that made a lasting impression. It was the stuff of experience. Trips. Babies arriving. Surprises. The gift that generates a great story.

Like the hot air balloon flight my wife gave me when we were kids. Amazing on its own. But the story makes it more so. The entire population of the basket was nearly dumped into the middle of the Delaware River when the pilot made a judgement error. If you imagine yourself being killed in a hot-air balloon accident, you generally imagine falling from a great height. Drowning doesn’t normally come to mind. I don’t know how close we came to going into the drink, but it felt pretty imminent at the time. We all got wet up to our knees, but we didn’t go in. Survival made the experience vivid. The story, way more compelling.

It dawned on me recently that I have my Uncle Mike to thank for another wonderful gift. I’ve been thinking about him a lot these days since he recently departed us, at age 94. A hell of a run, but he is missed terribly. He was a terrific uncle. Loved a good joke. Loved a good Italian meal. Loved his family. And loved a good story.

He had a lot of them. At age 94, who doesn’t? And he was a talented storyteller. Not sure he even knew that, it came naturally to him. He’d done and seen a lot, so he had a lot to tell. He lived more before his 20th birthday than some do in a whole lifetime. He enlisted in the Navy at age 16 during World War II and served with honor aboard the destroyer escort USS Straub. That was just the beginning—he would clock another 75 years.

He was also a bit of a road warrior. Uncle Mike was a truck driver when we were kids. That made him a damned good driver. And he loved driving. You’d think driving a truck, you’d get tired of it. But he never did. After he and Aunt Doris moved to Florida, when they came home to Jersey, they almost always drove. He loved nothing more than getting behind the wheel and piloting his own way. And he took roads other people didn’t even know existed. No Google Maps in those days. You didn’t need it anyway, if Uncle Mike was driving.

When I was little, he took me on the occasional road trip. We usually had a destination. Once, for example, to witness the every-weekend spectacle of WWI fighter planes, play-dogfighting at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome in New York’s Hudson Valley. But even on just a quick jaunt to the driving range (he also loved that kind of driving) getting from point A to point B with him was always huge fun. Spending time together, exploring, laughing and finding the best diners—truck drivers really do know where the good food is.

Some people need to get there as quickly as possible. The Interstate at 80 mph isn’t fast enough. Then there’s my group. Give yourself time, take it easy, take in the scenery and take the “back way.” I doubt if Uncle Mike was like that every day of the week. After all, he had a lot of stuff to do in a limited number of hours, like all the rest of us. But if we were heading out for some weekend excursion, getting there truly was half the fun.

This was in stark contrast to how my family did road trips. I love my dad and I miss him every single day. But he was firmly in the former category. No detours. No distractions. And no pee breaks. Hold it! We’re almost there! So we held it. Grandma Margaret’s house was two and a half hours from ours. We practically broke her door down, running for the bathroom the minute we got there. Six people clamoring for her single pot. A rugby scrum.

I’m more the meandering type. I can’t say for sure if it’s from Uncle Mike’s example or biological. Probably a little of both. After all, my mom, his sister, Marie, liked exploring back roads when she was able, too. There was the occasional weekend when Dad was either working a second job or recovering from a week of two jobs that afforded our own little road trips. She loved nothing more than getting lost, out in the country, to find what we could find.

Mike and Marie taught me the journey can be as rewarding as the destination. I still consider myself an explorer. And fortunately, I married one. Probably the reason we’re about to embark on a life of exploration. (More on that, later.)

Something else dawned on me. Uncle Mike’s appreciation for discovery probably held some sway over my career choice, although I doubt he knew that. I’m not sure I knew, until now.

As a birthday gift, for at least a decade of my youth, Uncle Mike and Aunt Doris paid for my National Geographic Society membership. That’s how they marketed subscribing to the magazine in those days. Clever people. Membership sounds so much more substantial than subscription. I read other stuff. Books, sure. Encyclopedias and atlases. The dictionary. Seriously, my word nerdery started early. The reference room is still my favorite section of the library.

But National Geographic was in a whole different class. Even if it had no words, the photography alone would have made it worth the price of admission.

But it had words. Really good ones. To me, its authors were superstars. They weren’t just superb storytellers. They were adventurers, my eyes and ears around the globe. They put me on a dog sled in the Yukon. On the shores of Easter Island, looking up at a colossal stone head, carved centuries ago from solid rock. Amidst the bustle, noise and smells of a city market in Afghanistan. Riding a red cell, coursing through the bloodstream. On a rocket to Mars. They even uncovered wonder in my own backyard, on the rutted sand tracks of the southern New Jersey pine barrens—a place I had seen, but only rushing by the window of the family station wagon, speeding along on our way to the beach. All that—and an exquisitely detailed map, now and again, stuffed between the pages.

National Geographic is merely blobs of ink on glossy paper. At some point I came to fully appreciate the magic those ink blobs beheld. The power to transform, transport and inspire. It gave me the gift of audacity. To think, could I do this? Could I be a writer, some day?

Well, I did. (Although I haven’t yet fulfilled my childhood dream of writing for the Geographic, there’s still time.)

Unsurprisingly, my life has been a bit like a weekend excursion with Uncle Mike—a journey of meandering. Through radio and news and PR and magazines and ad copy and who knows what, with wordsmithing the common thread.

Writers, musicians, artists and other creatives count muses by the dozen. I’m no different. My career has been rich with them. But National Geographic stands as a truly foundational one. It inspired both a love of words and a passion for getting out, seeing stuff and telling others the story. It really was one of my life’s greatest gifts.

Thanks, Unk.

=S

TO BE CONTINUED

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