.
as i sat there at his funeral and listened to the [too-few] testimonials, i reflected that if every friend, relative, employee and/or stray country-singer-with-promise my uncle don had helped on his way to the top had shown up that day, the church woulda been filled to overflowing; as it was, the place was maybe a third full--world's full of ungrateful bastards, i thought.and then i recalled the way i myself had once handled don's largesse and decided to cut the rest of the world a little slack.
picture it: spring 1979
i'm 22 years old, three years outta high school, three aimless semesters of junior college and one at UT austin under my belt--depressed, directionless and adrift.
awakened from sleep one early afternoon by my roommate: "your uncle don's on the phone--says it's important."
and indeed it is. my dead father's very busy and very successful brother, who has only once before ever called me directly, has decided to light a fire under his nephew's lazy ass: he offers to fully fund the remaining two years of my college education--room, board, tuition, books, walking-around money--everything. all i have to do is finally settle on a major and get back to him; he'll do the rest.
nice, huh?
to this day, i dunno from what depths i managed to summon the chutzpah to do what i do a week later: namely, call and tell don that instead of the two years of college he's offered, i've suddenly decided i wanna go to architecture school. it's a five-year program, starting from scratch--not a problem, right?
to his credit, don not only doesn't blink, he flies me up two weeks later for lunch with him and one of tulsa's leading commercial architects--hell, he's researched the whole thing far more fully than i have.
see, here's the thing about uncle d--he listened. when you talked to him about anything of substance, he always had a legal pad, took copious notes, handed 'em off to his secretary to be typed up and added to your file--not that he ever forgot anything, of course.
i'm last-minute-accepted into the UT architecture program commencing fall '79, and don gives me a big check covering all my first-year expenses--except for a car, which i need because my old honda's dying.
he gives me a choice: (a) a new car; or (b) one of his VP's cast-off company cars. i decide that, having already taken a mile, i might as well settle for an inch this time [and besides, don's VP's cars are always fabulous, right?].
unfortunately, VP homer p. turns out to be a chrysler guy.
there's technically nothing wrong with the new yorker--it's big and plush and relatively new--but from the moment i climb inside that loose, rattly old-ladymobile and turn the key, it's alien and wrong and i hate everything about it.
homer actually showed up at the funeral; i briefly debated telling him he had shitty taste in cars, but, being sober, went with the "my uncle always spoke highly of you" option instead.
to my credit, i endure the thing for almost a month before i ditch it for a vehicle which i deem far more appropriate to a serious young student embarking upon a rigorous course of study at a major university; i.e.,
how, you ask? simple--i unload the new yorker at top dollar to neville, who has suddenly found himself flush with cash.
wait--have i never talked about neville?
neville: (a) assistant athletic director at tyler junior college; (b) my mother's then-boyfriend; (c) the reason i got straight A's in gym for three semesters without ever once showing up; and (d) [since they played football together back in the day, and most pertinent to this story] my uncle d's newest business partner in a nursery venture which was created to exploit neville's legendary green thumb.
"so, mike," my uncle d sits me down and gently explains to me that summer at grand lake when he finds out about my brilliant deal: "just so you understand, i ended up buying that new yorker three times--first, for my company; then, for you; and last but not least, for neville."
of course in my stupid, self-centered youth, i hadn't put that one together--but lemme tell you, i'll never forget how small i felt when i realized what i'd done.
i'll never forget what happened next, either--uncle d put his arm around my shamed, dejected shoulders, gave me a squeeze and said, "don't worry about it--it's ok."
and then--because he always used music to deflect shit--he said, "here, listen to this--willie and ray price just put out an album, and you gotta hear what they did with this song."
while neville's nursery would turn out to be but one of many failed business ventures don would sink his money into in order to help out a friend--and god knows i'd scorch the landscape of texas in that spitfire before it finally burned out--willie and ray's version of bob wills' faded love will forever and rightfully endure in my mind as a memento not only of that grand summer, but of the man who made it and so many other things possible.
here's to you, uncle d.
