Ridin' On the Freeway

 I had two uncles.  One was on the East Coast and the other on the West Coast.  But geography was far from the differences they shared.  My East Coast uncle was a newspaperman, world traveler, and the husband of my mother's sister.  The Californian had married my father's sister during WWII and post-war they settled, along with my family, in the San Fernando Valley.  

At that time the Valley was full of all manner of migrants, clean air, mountain vistas, and affordable homes.  Uncle Cleary, and Aunt Dorothy lived about 10 miles from my family home. We did Christmas, they did Easter, for the first 16 years of my life.  We saw them, occasionally, too on special trips like Sunday afternoon drives, Disneyland, and perhaps a neighborhood birthday or anniversary party.  

My Uncle Cleary was always a bit of a mystery to me.  He looked, dressed, and talked unlike my parents or other relatives.  That's because his roots were in Montana and his livelihood came from carpentry and woodworking skills unknown in my family.  His real name was Clerman, but I never heard anyone use it except his mother or my aunt.  Aunt Dorothy had to be either a little tipsy or very angry to use his full name.  

Uncle Cleary wore suede jackets, smoked a pipe that always smelled good to me, and always drove a Cadillac.  As my childhood consumed the 1950s, my uncle's cars usually had fins.  About 1:30 pm every Christmas day that Caddie would swing into our driveway.  After gifts were exchanged and the afternoon meal consumed, I wander outside to see neighborhood friends.

"Can you find the gas tank on my uncle's caddie, " I'd question?  Often, they knew it was inside the tail light.  But if they didn't, I'd press the round knob on the red tail light that stood at the end of each fin, and it would pop open.  Surprise and delight all around.  

I clearly remember riding in the back seat of those Cadillacs at night,  Falling in and out of sleep leaning against my mom's arm, watching the LA skylights at night.  Smooth ride, comforting sleep.

Uncle Cleary had a dark side I'd soon discover.  He worked at a number of bowling alleys refinishing lanes. In the 1950s bowling was huge in Southern California and the alleys were big entertainment with a nightlife, lounge, restaurant, and very competitive bowling leagues.  Professional bowlers could make a good living, not unlike golfers.  It was regularly televised and the best of the best were household names, unlike today.  

One day Uncle Cleary appeared in the morning on a weekday.  He parked his Caddie in our driveway and proceeded to open the cavernous trunk.  Inside were 4 boxes loaded with used bowling pins. He'd told my parents that the splintered, aging pins made excellent firewood.  All that winter we burned them in our fireplace.  But not before my sister and I pulled 10 of the pins in the best condition.  All the kids in the neighborhood congregated in our backyard that summer as we  played "bowling alley." We set up the pins in the opened garage and kids would take turns using my basketball to roll it down the driveway into the pins.  As it was summer, and warm outside we set up a"bar" and drank our fill of water all afternoon.  My uncle was not particularly fond of kids but I wonder if he ever knew how happy he made the neighborhood bunch in my hometown.

At one of the last Thanksgivings, I spent at my Aunt and Uncle's place I was returning from the bathroom and chanced to pass the den in their house.  I looked inside the room and noticed that the piano usually in there had been replaced by a large Hammond organ.  Uncle Cleary occasionally played the piano and my sister and I once sat at the dinner table on his piano bench.  I was older on this day and just beginning to learn and listen to traditional blues and jazz music.  On the bench were a number of sheet music pages.  I found songs and compositions by Fats Waller and Duke Ellington, among others.  I regret I never got the opportunity to discuss his musical tastes with him. 

I knew that my uncle was very different than most of my family.  He ran with a rougher crowd that frequented bars and values conspicuous consumption.  He and my Aunt's marriage was more like the "Bickersons" than Ozzie and Harriet.  As he aged and his job skills were no longer in demand and his self-esteem declined.  There is something particularly tragic about an aging man in his aging Cadillac.  

One afternoon from the 23-year-old days of my life I returned to the Valley to visit my dad.  That's when I learned of the passing of my uncle.  Apparently, beset by personal problems and depression, my uncle went for one last ride in his Cadillac. This time he parked out by a remote lake and attached a hose to the exhaust pipe.  It was his last ride.