Uncle Paul

Heart, boats, and being of service

Ask my mother about Uncle Paul, and she’ll speak of how much he’s helped her over the years… and then she’ll inevitably get teary-eyed. He did and continues to do a lot. I heard the story more than once about how, relatively recently after my father’s passing, my mother was having a dark day. Distraught, she was sobbing and pacing around the house with a picture of my dad clutched against her chest. 

Then there was a knock on the door.

It was Paul. He was driving somewhere for work and felt like he had to turn around and stop by our house. So he showed up. And he was a shoulder she desperately needed to cry on. About those days and Uncle Paul, she said, “He could just be with me in my pain. And that’s true healing. So often for men, the natural feeling is to fix. But you just need to feel it.” 

That sums up Uncle Paul, and I could probably end the piece here. He’s a man of service. And he’s all heart. 

That’s all I heard when I asked different family members about him. 

“If our car broke down right now, I’d call him.”

“He’s got a heart the size of Lake Superior.”

“There are givers and takers in this world, and he’s 100% a giver, and he’s not showy about it either, not someone that would go on for praise about how he did XYZ for a person.”

“He obviously works so hard. I’m not sure when he ever sleeps, but then he’s so generous too. He’ll do anything for his people.”

“He’s my hero. I don’t know how to describe it but ever since I was little I wanted to be just like him. I don’t have a favorite thing I like to do with him. Anytime I’m around him, I’m happy to be there. He’s the best.”

He’s a man of service. And he’s all heart. But he’s old-school, which means he’s got a pretty tough stern-faced rural American shell wrapped around his heart of gold. He’s from a different generation of men. He’s a nose-to-the-grindstone, quit-f*ckin-around, don’t-whine-about-it, figure-it-out, and don’t-stop-til-it’s-done kind of dude. The kind of guy you turn to for help when building a house, replacing the struts in your truck, or trailering a multi-ton boat into storage. 

Pretty early on, I more or less decided he’d be the last uncle post. Partially because he’s ridiculously busy running a business, plowing all winter, and always has at least ninety-eight things to do. I knew the phone calls would be few and far between. I was right; the text responses were also few and far between. I wasn’t too worried about it because I knew how overworked he was, and it was my job and responsibility to track these guys down, not the other way around.

But most of the uncles are ridiculously busy. I decided Uncle Paul would be the last because… well, I’m still not exactly sure why. He can give off the vibe of being serious, unapproachable, and intimidating, but so can some of the other uncles. 

With most of the others, while we may not have much in common, I knew there was a topic or two that would serve as an entry point for a conversation. 

With Paul, I was unsure where to start.

Growing up and being close with his two sons, we probably made my cousin Kenz (their sister) cry, almost broke a window, tried to use his power tools, and peed in his hot tub all in one day. And Uncle Paul had to be there to tell us to quit fooling around. So many of my childhood memories of him involved us getting scolded and maybe a bit of that lingered. 

Obviously, there are fond memories too. Like the trip we took with Uncle Dale and some cousins to watch the Little League World Series in Pennsylvania. And I often played hockey with his son Blake, so, for whatever reason, the smell of ice rinks reminds me of Paul more than anyone else… And the smell of diesel.

I remember waking up at 7 am on hockey trips, and Uncle Paul, appearing to have been up for hours, would already have his coffee in hand and the truck would be running and toasty warm on a dark winter morning in the Upper Midwest. It’s the image I’ve always had of him: a man who doesn’t stop going and never gets tired. The first part is true; he’s always doing something. But I assume he sleeps like the rest of us mortals—I just haven’t seen it. 

But despite him being around a decent amount in my childhood, going into 18 Uncles, I was struggling with where the heck to start with Uncle frickin’ Paul. And somewhere along the way, I made the decision that he’d be the last.

Throughout my year in Michigan, we got some quality time together, made some drives to Wisconsin, chatted at the shop, and hung out on his gorgeous new boat. 

Things opened up. The conversation flowed. A deeper picture developed. It was wholesome and lovely. 

I now know what Paul and I can talk about. And I’m still unsure why exactly I made him the final uncle post—and I’m fighting the urge to add in a dozen ‘saving the best for last’ jokes.