By: Meg Naumovski

I grew up listening to stories about my dad’s Uncle Wendell.  At first, I remember thinking that this was some magical character my dad invented to entertain and inspire us, just the way my father seemed to be entertained and inspired by this man he adored. We would hear how when dad was a kid, he would follow Uncle Wendell around, entranced by his mechanical abilities to fix anything and entertained at the same time with his warm personality.

I imagined scenes of breezy late summer days in northern Ohio, white clouds in blue skies, soft lake breezes and the sound of Cicadas humming in the trees. I could picture a young version of my dad, blue eyes, tight blond curls, trying to make a whistle sound from his blade of grass (he always taught us this important skill as kids.) Little Glenn might have his freckled nose too close to the engine as he positioned himself “overseeing” Uncle Wendell’s work.  Maybe he tried to direct where he thought his uncle should connect a wire, and then I would recall some joke about how awesome “copper tubing” was, though I never quite understood what that meant. 

Many of the things my dad proclaimed to love about his uncle were the very things I loved about my dad. He was a handy man, an inventor, a jokester, and a craftsman.  As Dad would work in the garage, from a large project pile of scrap metal, wires, and other things that bewildered me, he whistled a tune that would float through the air, and his peaceful contentment was palpable. I would linger near him for hours at a time, just drawing or playing with dolls; whatever I could do to absorb any amount of his serenity.

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