After Dad died my Uncle Henry became like my second father. He had a big influence on my face and, like Dad, never treated me differently or dwelled on my disability. He and my Aunt Sue lived nearby in town. Henry was tall and thin, with dark-framed glasses and a perpetual tan. He worked for many years at a local tire plant, just like Dad. Many of our family either worked at tire plants or the local steel mill. We descended from our immigrant relatives who came to Pennsylvania looking for work in the coal mines and steel factories.
Henry's passion was gambling. He was happiest behind a card table or at the racetrack. Of course, he taught me the ins and outs of cards and the ponies.
Henry and Sue argued often, often over petty things, but that is how they lived and loved for nearly sixty years.He would tell her to "shut the hell up" ( every other word out of his mouth was "damn" or "hell", which made Henry a salty, colorful character to be around). It wasn't uncommon for him to half-jokingly threaten to "throw her in the trunk" during one of our many day trips together. But overall he was a nice guy with a heart of gold. I'm convinced they loved each other. As Sue would say, "He's like an antique. I can't get rid of him now."
Uncle Henry ( everyone had an Uncle Henry in their family at one time or another) had an opinion about everything and wasn't afraid to express it, which was kind of refreshing. He didn't mince words, and although Aunt Sue was his leash and advised him to "mind your own business," it didn't stop Henry from putting in his two cents everywhere he went.
Henry liked to play Blackjack in Atlantic City. He was good at the game but better at Poker. He held his own at the tables, told off the pit bosses when he lost, and led a fantasy Frank Sinatra type of life (his idol), or at least wanted to.
He told stories in the car about Sinatra, along with his usual hunting and fishing yarns. I was a captive audience during our excursions to Atlantic City, but I found his stories interesting, amazed how he knew all the good fishing holes around the area, or how he once stayed up in a tree for ten hours. waiting for a deer to pass by. His bad language added to the interest and humor of his stories. Mom and I laughed out loud often during our trips together.
Sometimes he told the same story twice and asked, "Did I ever tell you this one before?" Yes, but I didn't mind hearing it again, although Aunt Sue would groan in the backseat.
He literally had hundreds of stories to relate. He liked me because I was a willing listener. We all need someone to listen to us, especially when we grow older. At close to eighty Henry was eager to share his wisdom with anyone willing (or not so willing) to listen. It made his life complete, adding a sense of closure to his life. It made him feel his life wasn't wasted, that he had lived a rich, full life. So, in that respect Henry enjoyed time with me almost as much as I looked forward to seeing him too.
He focused on my abilities ( like my new found ability to play Blackjack), which was new to me. The only time he would mention my disability was in passing, almost as an afterthought, commenting to others, "Shame, isn't it/ He doesn't have any legs."
I did have legs. They were just short and stunted underneath my trousers. Why Henry always thought I didn't have legs was something I never understood but didn't bother to ask him about or correct him.
The racetrack was also a favorite hang-out of ours. Nothing like sitting outside on a warm summer evening in Brandywine, Delaware, gazing at programs, trying to pick a winner. We followed a local harness driver named Wade, and when Henry saw in the morning paper that Wade was going to ride in a race that night he called me up and asked if I "wanted to go.'
We both didn't have much money. Henry had his pension and Social Security so we were strictly $2.00 bettors. We had fun and the races were a diversion from life. We didn't often win but Henry did hit a long shot exacta once for over $2,000 ( which seemed like a million to him), but more than often we lost, lamenting in the car "We will get them next time."
We met baseball player Pete Rose at Brandywine one night ( way before he was labeled a gambler). Henry spotted him in the clubhouse while placing a bet and wasn't afraid to go up to him and asked him to say hi to me. Sure enough, after the races ended that night Henry positioned my wheelchair near the escalator close to the main exit and there was the familiar face of Pete Rose riding down with a group of people, Henry standing behind him, smiling broadly, and I could read his lips "He doesn't have legs..."
Pete stopped for a moment, shook my hand, and gave me an autographed photo. "How ya doing, buddy?" he grinned before his bodyguard whisked him out the door into the summer air.
Henry kept life exciting and fun. He went out of his way to make me smile.
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