By Jacqueline Doiron
Most kids wait for Christmas, some for spring break, and some for the magical time of summer. I wasn’t one of those kids. Don’t get me wrong, I liked summer, but those are stories for another time. While all my friends dreamed of summer, I dreamed of the crisp air of fall and “The Ride.”
I was that weird kid that everyone whispered about. I already kind of knew how it felt to fly as I had fallen out of a third story window at the age of two and a half. I was always “the sick kid.” They even tried to tell my parents I was “retarded”. But my Uncle Robert was the cool uncle who brought me a huge stuffed dog in the hospital and then, in all the years of growing up afterward, he made sure I had other chances to fly.
Every November my mom, my dad, my sister, and I all piled into the car for the hour drive to Uncle Maurice and Aunt Irene’s house in New Hampshire for Thanksgiving. Aunt Irene was the best cook and made the most delicious food! But while everybody else was waiting for the turkey, I was waiting for Uncle Robert to arrive. All the sounds of the day mingled together while I waited. Then I’d hear a low, deep rumble that shook the house. A shriek of joy and I was out of that kitchen door screaming, “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here!” I can still see my mom’s grimace at how loud I was.
There he was, his huge loveable Grizzly Adams body in the front seat of the newest model of Corvette. He even proudly displayed a glass Corvette on his coffee table at home and would gladly engage in a long conversation about cars. And, while everyone else said hi to my cool uncle, I would almost pass out with anticipation waiting. Finally, it was my turn! My turn! My turn! Again, the grimace on mom’s face. “Jackie calm down,” she would say as I bounced in a circle around Uncle Robert. “Jackie! Calm down!” just a little more sternly. And my smooth and handsome uncle would come to my rescue saying: “Simone, you calm down. I’m here to see her!” A huge smile would cover my face and I would flush with pride as he would pick me up and squeeze me until I could barely breathe.
After that, eating Thanksgiving dinner always took entirely too long! And during the slow torture of the after chat my uncle and I would both grow restless. Finally, smirking and throwing me a quick wink, Uncle Robert would turn to my mom and say “Hey Simone, do you need any cigarettes? I’m going out to grab a pack. Wanna go with me, Jackie?” “Ready!” I’d answer with a face smushed with joy. Then I’d climb into the front seat, which seemed so big to me yet so little to my big Uncle Robert. Everyone would come out to watch us just pull out of the driveway: that’s how cool he was. And for the next thirty minutes he was all mine!
Along with fast cars and smoking and drinking, Uncle Robert loved loud music. I can still remember the Doors “Light My Fire” playing in his car as we roared down the road with the top down. The rumble of the engine and the music would vibrate through my body, and both of us would disappear into the energy of the moment. We would zoom down the road, up the hill, right past that convenience store we’d said we were going to. And Uncle Robert would look at me with his beautiful smirk and say, “We’ll grab those cigarettes on the way back.” Then he’d pull onto the highway and off we shot like a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm. The wind blowing in my face, my hands in the air. “Eeeeeeeeeeee, faster!” I would shriek as his foot pushed down on the gas pedal! We drove so fast, I imagined I was flying! Sometimes I would see a hawk in the air floating above and imagine we were racing! It was magical! He was magical!
Uncle Robert rarely smiled, but he always smiled as he focused on the road and the dashboard in front of him and kept his hand on the shifter like a movie star in a getaway car in an action movie. When we’d come to the exit, I would think to myself, “He’ll slow down this time,” but he didn’t! He would take that curve like a race car driver, both hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. We would finally only slow down and come to a stop at a light. Then he would turn to me with the widest smile and say, “You can never tell your mother about this!” and laugh a big belly laugh! And I, in turn, would pledge, “Never!” “OK then, back home we go,” he’d say, and we’d do the very same thing on the way back to the house. Sometimes we wouldn’t even get cigarettes and my mom would make him go back out to get her some despite the fact that the convenience store was within walking distance.
Those rides were the best moments of my life.
Later in life I would come to realize those rides were for my uncle as well as for me. So, it wasn’t entirely a surprise when my mom called me on a hot August day to tell me Uncle Robert had taken his own life. I think I always knew he had his own demons. An army veteran, he had a long-distance stare in his eyes. Those beautiful steely blue-gray eyes had seen so much. But depression was also part of his family inheritance. He’d only been a teenager when he’d found out about his own father’s body hanging from the barbed wire noose he’d used to kill himself.
And I think that’s why Uncle Robert understood me, even though we never talked about our demons. Sure, I’d fallen out of a window and was treated as a damaged kid, but I was also sexually assaulted at a very young age and an alcoholic by the time I was a teenager. Then, one after another, I tumbled into abusive relationships in my adult life. It’s actually surprising that I’m even here today and can celebrate my twelfth year of sobriety. And that may be thanks in part to my rides with Uncle Robert.
When the two of us would roar out of Uncle Maurice’s driveway we were leaving behind the people who wouldn’t let us talk about our demons. Unlike everyone else who insisted on just seeing me as another little kid, Uncle Robert really saw me and heard me. He motivated me to stay alive by expressing myself as exactly who I am. My motto is, “I’m unique . . . just like everyone else!”
As I sit here, I stare at that glass Corvette that was given to me after he passed, and I think of those moments. That glass Corvette has been with me everywhere I’ve ever lived, and each time I look at it I can feel those rides. And anyone with depression knows how important it is to seize moments of joy. My Uncle Robert knew the power of a fast ride with loud music—and the company of a person who inspires you. And that is how I will always remember my Uncle Robert. Although he finally was overwhelmed by his own demons, he has kept me alive by teaching me to celebrate life every day.
