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Holiday Cheer from Aunt Edith by My late Uncle Wes lived with my Aunt Edith for most of his adult life...although I’m sure it seemed like an eternity to him. He worked for the Bethlehem Steel Company in Baltimore for thirty years until he retired. He worked the night shift getting off around 7 a.m. when he would come home for dinner. In the summer when it was warm...and Baltimore can get very, very humid...he would go to a movie matinee in an air conditioned theater and sleep. If you knew my Aunt Edith you would assume what I did...even as a child...and that was that Uncle Wes worked nights and went to matinees to get away from his wife. He never said much. He was a slight, wiry man of few words. And the few words he almost always uttered were, “For Chrissakes Edith! SHUDD UPP!!”
The man was almost incidental by nature. One time...after he retired and he and Aunt Edith moved back to the Cleveland area...my brothers and I were helping him put a refrigerator in a backyard shed because there was no room for it in the trailer they were moving into. After much jostling my brothers and I closed the shed door and thought we were finished. From her perch (as supervisor of course) Aunt Edith looked at the three of us with bewilderment and asked, “Where the HELL is Wes?” And after exchanging confused glances we heard muffled sounds coming from behind the fridge in the shed. “MMMPPPHH!!! Hey!! HHMMPPHHFFF!!!” We quickly opened the shed door, moved aside the refrigerator and liberated Uncle Wes. My brothers and I were all embarrassed and each, in turn, apologized profusely for our insensitive behavior. Aunt Edith broke into the humility with a shriek of, “What the HELL were you doing in there?” Which prompted Uncle Wes to ... once again ... chant his mantra. “For Chrissakes Edith!! SHUDD UPP!!” They were quite the loving couple. Their last name was Crabtree. I am not making this up. Wes soon was diagnosed with lung cancer. Thirty years in the steel mills and 2 packs a day of Chesterfield non-filters caught up with him. The last time I saw him he was lying on the couch in their trailer smoking the aforementioned brand of cigarettes, quite literally coughing his lungs out ... or what was left of them. “I TOLD him to quit those goddamned things years ago. “ Aunt Edith offered for my contemplation. To which Uncle Wes replied sarcastically (yep, you guessed it) “Cough cough ... For Chrissakes HACK! HACK! Edith!!! SHUDD UPPP!!!” These were the final words I heard my uncle ever say and we all joked at the funeral that these very words were more than likely chiseled into his headstone. A few years after Wes passed, my brother and his new wife were having their very first Christmas and invited everyone over...including Aunt Edith. My parents were there along with my siblings and their families. This included my brother Jim’s 9 year old adopted son Matt. Matt the Brat was what my father called him. I thought this surprisingly subtle for my Dad. If I knew where Matt is today...and thank God I do not ... I would have to guess some one killed him or he’s in jail convicted of several murders. I honestly don’t care so long as he’s nowhere near me. So Matt the Brat is playing with one of the toys some one so graciously gave him and he broke it. This kid could break anything he got his hands on. But in a moment of diplomacy my father (affectionately known as Snook) said, “They don’t make anything any good any more!!” To which...in the spirit of the season Aunt Edith quipped, “You’re right Snook!! Everything IS SHIT!!!” Well... happy holidays to you too Aunt Edith. Inside my head I distinctly heard a voice from my past reply, “For Chrissakes Edith!! SHUDD UPPP!” You know...there are lots of reasons to go through life believing that “everything is shit.” There are days when it certainly seems true to me. I have my days when Sartre’s “Hell is other people” could easily be the thought of the day. But...unlike Aunt Edith...I don’t want to spend a big chunk of my life living alone in a trailer. And when I think of this particular Christmas it strikes me how most of them blur into each other...with the exception of a few. And this is one of them I distinctly remember. As much as family...and sometimes even friends ... can annoy a person ... especially at this time of year ... I have come to realize that even some one like Aunt Edith helped make me who I have become. I mean that in a positive way. Imagine ... Aunt Edith’s negativity was so over the top it MADE me consider the positive. I have no idea how she became so bitter. My father did shortly before he died also. Yet they both, particularly Snook, had a positive influence. They were there. Unlike today when some people are not. This holiday season...regardless of which one you celebrate...take the time to savor those around you...even if they drive you nuts. They may not...for whatever reason...be there next year. And in some strange way, which will surprise you, their absence will make you miss them. I guarantee it. (a possible exception to this uplifting message might be Matt the Brat) And you might consider that next year YOU might not be here. So I suppose my holiday message may seem bittersweet to most...but that’s how I see it. And if anyone feels the need to take issue with my views then I encourage you to speak up LOUDLY...’cause I’ve got one thing and one thing only to say to you. FOR CHRISSAKES!!!! SHUDD UPPP!!! Jimmy Mak's new book,
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Skrade By Dr. Carl Skrade passed away 9/5/19 at 84 years old. He was indeed my mentor. And I realize not everyone at little, conservative Capital University in Columbus, Ohio found him endearing. I’m by no means stating that Capital was remotely like “Christian colleges” are today. Capital is an accredited university … not a far-right Sunday School with a football team. Skrade, Drs. Fry & Wilson all convinced me to stay in college and get a degree ... hence my double major of History AND Religion. I was drawn to him. Skrade stood out not for his kindness … which was paramount if you let yourself listen … but because he was an ultra-liberal in a sea of moderates and conservatives. He was a Lutheran mostly. But he did get his doctorate at Union Theological Seminary … a staunchly liberal environment … especially compared to his other orthodox Lutheran alma maters. And despite it being the early 1970’s, Capital’s student body was made up of sheltered, middle class, predominantly Caucasian kids … most of whom rarely if ever questioned Lutheran authority. I fit in pretty well back then … except for the respecting authority part. Being intimidated by Skrade was an honor ... a growth intellectually ... with few peers at Capital. Once I walked into his office to hear him greet me with "Hey Rick. How's your soul?" as he flashed his ornery grin. I stayed in touch … on and off through the years. He never once told me to call him Carl. He was always DOCTOR Skrade. His goatee, casual attire and laid-back demeanor made him seem like a Beat Poet gently elbowing his path through a crowded room of Rod McKuens … or a convention of Hallmark Channel writers. Skrade was tough yet fair. He read a lot and expected his students to do the same … on time. Many times, … at the beginning of class … he would provoke discussion by throwing out theological one-liners that enraged some … and bemused those of us who saw behind his prickly proclamations. Nothing was merely surface with Dr. Skrade. “I find it sad that most do not believe what happened in the 1930s in Nazi Germany could happen in America.” (During the apex of the Vietnam War this statement stung some students severely.) “Faith is NOT believing in something unbelievable.” Dr. Skrade certainly knew how to provoke ex-Luther Leaguers. Being a student of existential theologian Paul Tillich, Skrade had us read The Courage to Be. We also delved into Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, Rudolph Bultmann’s work on de-mythologizing, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey, and William Saroyan’s The Human Comedy. These writings are NOT Luther’s Small Catechism. Carl Skrade was also a cinephile. He and I explored the theological concept of “grace” in films … mostly Laurel and Hardy shorts and Buster Keaton’s The General. Even FUN was intellectual to the man. And I will never forget playing a song I wrote … about “grace” … in front of a class in lieu of writing a term paper. How many professors are fun/flexible/intellectual in their intimidations? One of the last times we met for lunch I brought my brand new, first book to show him. Of course, he assumed I was GIVING IT TO HIM. I said I had to charge him $15 for it. He griped and threw the cash on the table. I asked him if he'd like me to sign it … to which … in response … he snarled, “And how much is THAT going to cost me?" I took the book from him and began writing. “Dr. Skrade (of course).” He sat directly across from me and watched as I carefully autographed my book. And after I wrote "a special thanks to the man who changed my life … forever … for the better" I looked up and saw Skrade swallow hard. His voice cracked when he said, “It’s still feels good to know I made a difference.” Then … I saw the tear in his eye. Grace. I will miss my wonderfully blasphemous, curmudgeonly friend … DOCTOR Carl Skrade … indeed.
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