Uncle Wingnut 2.0

When I was eleven years old, my uncle Paul left Seattle for a two year mission to Malaysia to help impoverished refugees.  The third child of Christian Missionaries having spent his formative years in the Philippines on his own parents mission, this was no surprise to anyone in our close-knit family.  For me however, I felt gutted.  I can still feel the burning tears as we said our goodbyes at Sea-Tac airport, back when the whole family could breeze through security to say proper farewells at the departure gate.  Back when using the white courtesy phone to prank each other wasn’t considered an act of terrorism.   

Uncle Wing-nut, as we lovingly referred to Paul for his non-confirmative lifestyle and the propensity to wear completely different shoes from his right to his left feet.  I would spend the night at his small basement apartment in the wealthy Madison neighborhood in Seattle proper on Tuesdays for a number of years.  Mostly we would talk, eat his baked lentils with sour cream specialty, and I would get a full history lesson on the background of our family dating back to the Scottish Highlands, whether I wanted it hear it or not.  

I was a spoiled kid unaware of the riches I had in family with filled with loving hearts in an uncle, two aunts and a pair of grandparents all on my fathers side all living locally.  My mothers’ family based in a small town in West Texas had been diminished down to a distant uncle and cousins that I rarely saw.  Those years between six and twelve were heavily spent with my dads brother and sisters, and were some of the best of my life, as it should be for any child with a loving and caring family.

Besides my uncle’s bizarre clothing choices, he couldn’t be any more different than my sometimes overbearing and controlling (to put it mildly) father.  Paul was quiet, kind, and asked questions.  In fact, you would think that he was a gold medalist Olympian in the asking of questions game.  He could fire off a dozen heart felt and honestly inquisitive inquiries about your schooling, friend groups, hobbies, fears, joys and anything else that would come to mind faster than an M-16 in the heat of battle.  

Two years seemed to be an unbearably long time to a distant land that I couldn’t point to on a map.  Hell, two years to me meant leaving behind Little League baseball and entering High School.  Putting away my legos in exchange for stealing my dad’s Playboy’s from his not-so-secret hiding place.  Two years to any kid in their small bubble of family, is an eternity.  That aching pain that I felt in my gut on that day in the satellite terminal that required taking the always exciting airport Tram to access, still present in my belly some thirty two years later.  

In my own life, I am now the families uncle wing-nut.  With six nieces and nephews ranging from fourteen to two, I’ve become the oddball, child and wifeless weirdo that marches to the beat of his own drum.  I’ve spent the better part of eight years living in San Francisco after an eight minute discussion with my ex resulting in a rushed relocation to the ‘City’, while coinciding (or colliding) with a rekindling of our relationship.  

For me, moving to the Bay Area had been a lifelong dream as I had spent a few years living here as a small kid while my Dad set up (and quickly dismantled) his second marriage resulting in my half brother and sister who spent most of their lives living in the East Bay, and were now raising families of their own.  Besides the magic of the area drawing me back year after year for visits, I was most excited to call SF home to be closer to my family.  The highest cost of living in the most expensive state be damned, I was going to conquer the City by the Bay, the same as I had done in Boston a few years previously.  

Two years shy of a decade, and its now time for me to move on again.  Feeling the pinch of the ever growing aforementioned cost of living and the upward rising tech-only jobs that has been pushing the middle class out of the area like the last gasp of a tube of toothpaste, it has now caught me in its wake.  Taking advantage of my mom’s chosen retirement state of New Mexico, I’ll soon be a resident of the (Incredibly) more affordable Santa Fe.  Not an easy move to make, not only being at the age of forty-four, but as this will be my seventh state in life, ands sixth as an adult I’m frankly tired of this moving shit.  I might as well have U-haul on speed dial.  (Speed dial, for those born after 2000, was a feature that you could set up on your wireless phone.  No, not a cell phone but a phone that connected to a cradle and couldn’t be taken more than a few feet out of range from the dock… oh never mind).  

In the several years that I’ve lived only a bridge away from from my extended family, I’ve not seen nor hung out with them nearly as much as any of us would have hoped.  Such is life.  Not possessing the same abilities to hang with kids as my own uncle, nor admittedly the desire to at times, I’ve made excuses or deflected responsibility to my siblings for the lack of time spent.  With the addition of not having kids of my own, and feeling (correctly so), old as dirt, I’ve simply forgotten what its like to be a kid, and to have my small world filled with mostly family.

So, when time came to relay this exciting move of mine to my siblings and in turn to their own children, I was caught completely unawares by their visceral reactions.  My eleven year old niece who spends most of her free time in an advanced dance company with realistic dreams of taking her talents to a career level, broke into tears when her mom told her the news.  

My sweet souled fourteen year old nephew who just had his first sleepover at my tiny apartment in the wealthy Cole Valley neighborhood near Golden Gate Park a mere week ago, fell completely silent when I told him the news over the phone.  After babbling out my explanation as if I had been caught shoplifting at K-Mart (don’t ask, kids), I asked him how he was feeling.  His one word answer of ‘sad’ told me more in his tone that anything else he could have added.  I was suddenly back in the cold airport, knots in my stomach and grasping for one more hug from my Uncle.  I could sense my nephews aching heart through the phone, not knowing how to express himself fully but feeling all the feels of someone who just lost an important person in their tiny bubble.  

We ended the call with I love you’s and the promises of one more sleepover before my departure in a mere six weeks, as well as many trips to visit both ways.  His Mom relayed to me afterwards that they hugged and cried together shortly after hanging up.  For someone who generally only cries at dumb long distance commercials, (again, don’t ask kids) this sent me into waterworks.  My dumb-ass never considered that in the Age of Distraction, that real people feel real feelings, even ‘kids these days’.  If two years felt like eternity to me, I can’t imaging what an open ended full-on move means to them.  And that’s only two out of the six kids.  The other four will have a range of similar emotions down to still not understanding or remembering who I am yet from visit to visit.  

While this move might be the best and smartest one I’ve undertaken for my soul and spirit, what I am leaving behind in family, friends, and fur babies is incomparable to any relocation prior.  I can’t wait to escape the land of senseless Tesla, Prius and luxury car drivers darting in and out of lanes without a care or turn signal.  I eagerly await a home that says hello to its neighbors as you pass them on the street rather than turning up the volume on AirPods and avoiding eye contact.  The mountains so inviting for rides, hikes and exploration mere minutes away instead of the grueling four-plus hour drives through Los Angeles and Sacramento traffic.  The twenty dollar burritos and beers soon to be in the rear mirror.  All of these annoyances and the lack of ability to save money and plan for the ever fast approaching future are all practical reasons to leave, as have my middle class brethren before me.  

However the people, relationships, memories and feelings of connection with my siblings and their family, will be utterly impossible to replace.  In the long run everyone will be fine.  They will grow up to be and do what they are meant to, or are forced into.  There will be trips and moves of their own.  I am hopeful that stays with me in a vastly different state and culture will help to expand their worlds and feelings of what may be accomplished in life.  

Sooner than later they will have families of their own and I’m betting top dollar that at least one of the six will take a different path.  Emerging as aunt or uncle wing-nut of the gen z-ers and blazing new trails with their dreams of creation, art and exploration.  They too will face hard decisions leaving their own nieces and nephews to shed tears at their departures for a new life.  And so it goes.  Life.  How beautifully sad and incredible that it is.

Matt Hoffman-Beals, 2/4/2024