Uncle Todd

“I’m still an adrenaline junky; I’m a firefighter”

At the end of the youth hockey season, teams often have a fun ‘fathers vs. sons’ or ‘parents vs. kids’ game. While flipping through my photo album last fall, I came across a post-game picture of young me and Uncle Toddy on the ice at the Houghton County Arena. I have no recollection of the game or taking the photo, and neither did Todd when I showed him later on. But it has to be from the season after my father died. 

My Uncle Todd must have filled in to play in our parents vs. kids game. It’s a wild thing how so many memories like that get lost with time, only existing as a captured moment in a four-by-six photograph. It left me wondering how many other ‘uncles/aunts stepping up’ moments I’ve forgotten. Part of this journey is trying to uncover those while getting to know these men better.

Like most of them, I couldn’t have said much about my Uncle Todd a year ago. And have spent the last weeks and months remedying that. So on Memorial Day after a cousin's graduation party, I drove out to Oskar Bay to hang out with my Uncle Todd and Aunt Lisa. 

I had stopped by in the fall, chewed some tobacco, and sat on chairs in the driveway with Todd and Cousin Cooper but hadn’t had much time with Toddy since—and I rarely get to sit and have long conversations with my Aunt Lisa, who Todd affectionately calls “Hon-du,” a play on ‘Honey’ with that classic Finnish American-ism of throwing a ‘u’ at the end of things. 

When Todd finished cutting the grass, he built a fire in the pit in their backyard, and we posted up on lawn chairs for four and half hours, chatting all things career, Michigan, fighting forest fires, American politics, and life. We made some corn on the cob and some hot dogs over the fire—Todd crushing three quick ones with ketchup and onions but regretting the fourth he had prepared and held half-eaten in his hand. 

My Uncle Todd is a quintessential Yooper man, which means he’s a quintessential rural American man: flannels, America-related graphic t-shirts, jeans or cargo pants, leatherman on his belt, tobacco in his lip, a banging salt-and-pepper mustache, baseball caps, and a hearty accent. Uncle Jimmy tells a great story of when Todd would often visit them while traveling in the area for work and one of his kids asked, “When’s that ‘You Betcha’ guy coming back?”

Of my eight Markham uncles, Todd reminds me most of my grandfather. He knows a bit about everything, can fix literally everything, is quick to let out a boisterous laugh, and his physical build and whole vibe are—for me—very much Grandpa Jimmy Markham. 

He’s a wildland firefighter, a volunteer local firefighter, an adrenaline junkie, a husband, and the father of six. 

Uncle Todd’s story is one of searching, job hopping, immense sacrifice, and ultimately finding his place. He’s a man who truly enjoys what he does and seems to be more comfortable than ever—in all ways: home, sitting around the fire with Hon-du, and watching the flames without a care in the world.