People don't live on in the memories of those they touched as complete people, rather they become a distillation of the best, or sometimes, worst of all they have been. Each person's memory is like a chapter in a book or a line in a poem. When assembled there is a cohesive piece of work; without all the pieces, much is left for interpretation and the possibility of being taken out of context.
Charles Jacob was the middle son of Willard and Mary. As middle children go, with all respect to Richie Cunningham, he was a success. A military officer, college graduate and proud parent as well as family peacekeeper and mischief maker. There was a certain seperateness about him that only increased after his untimely death. The seperateness was in the fragmentation of his persona by those who knew him and how well they knew him. I have a relic from his earlier military days where he monikers himself as C.J.. I understand those in the military often use different names or nicknames, I suppose as a way to distance the two incongruate worlds of war and peace, though which is which may be open for debate.
I knew him as Uncle Chuck, my godfather and, I suppose, one of my first role models and heroes. I remember his height, he was over six and a half feet tall, and a kind of softness for someone so large. What has bugged me for years, is that I can never recall his face. I can close my eyes and picture the tiny lawn tractor he drove, pulling my red wagon behind, the shades of red and brown on the cowling. I can also see his uniform, crisp and dark, but the face is forever washed out by the glow of his sparkling white cover. I was young when he died, only six or so, I wish I had a longer chapter.
To his brothers, he was Charlie, an instigator with the charm to bring peace, a source of pride for a generation. In some eyes, his legend would grow, others would attempt to project the troubles that would have challenged him in life. He turned family tradition on its head one Thanksgiving. To maintain an orderly table with a large number of people and dishes to pass, all dishes passed in the same direction, whether clockwise or counter, depending on the direction of the first pass. Charles sat across from Jr. and as the prayer ended, he swiftly grabbed a platter in each hand and passed one each direction. In short order, Jr. had a pile of serving dishes in front of him and more on the way.
Most intriguing were the pieces of the book Mary carried with her. Perhaps it was Mary's moments of vulnerability that I was blessed to experience, or the trust I somehow garnered, lead to the sharing of so many stories. Charles, like myself, had an aversion to water. Not a real phobia, just a strong feeling that there were few truly good reasons to put one's face under water and to this end we were willing to strongly defend our position. That Pat and Jr. both took to the water fairly easily which, being surrounded by it and constantly in and out of boats, was considered a good thing, if for no other reason than personal safety. The benchmark was being able to swim around the length of the long main dock. At more than 90 feet, it was a good swim for a young person. The other two boys had long since passed this test but Charles was hesitant. He had asked for, and received, a set of flippers which improved his kick, but held out on the 'dock swim'. He also had a large snorkel mask that he wore with the fins as though he was protected by these items, perhaps more symbolically than physically. Finally, on a hot July afternoon, Mary sat bargaining with Charles over a game of gin rummy. The stakes began low enough, swim the dock and you can have a soda and your choice from the snack counter. Charles dealt another hand of cards. A soda every day for a week and your choice from the counter, Mary upped the ante. Charles tallied the score for the card game silently, but Mary sensed an opening. A case of soda, you get to pick the flavor. Mary fixed her eyes on Charles. He pushed his chair, slowly and purposefully, away from the table and walked to his room. He emerged, seconds later, with his flippers and goggles in place and trudged awkwardly to the stony shoreline. Cautiously, he negotiated the layers of Canadian Shield granite until the water lapped at his flippers. Fixing his mask, he began the gentle descent into Gohere Bay. Once he reached a depth where his legs no longer touched bottom, he kicked off, flippers sending a wake behind. Mary would later describe how the push provided by those flippers combined with the length of his legs and feet to propel him through the water such that his shoulders barely touched the surface, let alone his face. The goggles were wholly unnecessary. Charles picked up speed after turning around the end of the dock and continued until he reached the marshy sand on the east side of the dock. Placing two hands on the boards, he swung himself from the water, kicked off the flippers, raised the mask and jogged to the camp store where he filled a flat with a combination of sodas, piled several chocolate bars atop the cans and returned to sit across from Mary and deal the next round.
Charles died young, barely thirty years old. Mary and Willard were at the island. It had been a rough year or so following an accident in which Charlie's boat had collided with a boat full of fishermen that were trolling in a main channel. In the wake of his death, the incident was resolved by insurance. Charlie struggled at times, as many military men do, returning to the boredom of civilian life after the intensity and discipline of his time in the service and tour in Vietnam. Mary often spoke to me of a series of dreams she had in the months leading up to Charles' death.
The south side of the island on which the Camp is built melts gently into the green waters of Gohere Bay. From the windows of the owner's cabin, two smaller islands stand sentry, a kind of gateway. The dream, she would say, is the same, though it comes infrequently, it still comes. I see Charles, walking down to the edge of the water, just like the day he proved he could swim. This time he has no flippers, no goggles, no protection. He wades into the water, slowly at first, sinking bit by bit, until he is floating, and begins to kick. His arms raise and swing into the water and he glides smoothly to the end of the dock. I think he'll turn around, like he did on that day, but he just keeps swimming. I call to him and he doesn't hear or doesn't listen. He keeps swimming. There is a fog that rolls between the islands from the end of the bay and he just swims into it. The water is calm and fluid and the fog doesn't roll, it just grows. And then I'm alone at the end of the dock, calling his name.
People live on in pieces and memories, like chapters in a book, torn from its binding. To me, he was Uncle Chuck.
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