Uncle

I collect mugs. I never intended or planed to collect mugs; it just sorta happened. When my kitchen was redone a number of years ago the designer popped a small section of floor-to-ceiling shelving in what otherwise would have been unused space, and a display area for mugs was born. I still didn't get it, and only after randomly unpacking, trying to put the new kitchen in order, did I realize that the mugs I'd absently set on those shelves belonged there. Looking at them later I realized that most of them have a story. This is one:

Many years ago I visited a quadriplegic patient. Injured in an accident the details of which I long since have forgotten, he was a talking head. He couldn't move his arms or legs at all, and I'm not sure now that he even could turn his head. Japanese, he lived with family who respectfully called him "Uncle," and they couldn't have been more courteous or deferent if he'd been able to rear up and threaten them with every sort of violence imaginable or to dole out wads of cash. As are many Japanese homes, the apartment was minimally appointed and spanking clean, always. That it was a third floor walk-up didn't stop the men from carrying Uncle down the stairs and strapping him first into the car and then into a wheelchair so they could take him fishing. Uncle loved to fish, and a little thing like quadriplegia wasn't about to stop him from going!

All I did was visit once a month to change his urinary catheter. Never did I find a mark on his skin, a drop of water in his lungs, a hint of infection, or any other complication of such profound immobility. Uncle always smiled and always asked after me, while at least one family member hovered in the background ready to assist and eager to hear any suggestion I might have to make Uncle's life the least bit better. I don't recall ever having even one; this family had it down perfectly. Nonetheless, Uncle and family alike never failed to extend heartfelt thanks at the end of each of my visits.

One Christmas they gave me this mug. It probably was part of a Starbucks gift package; I don't remember. Of course any coffee or hot chocolate that might have come with it was devoured with relish long ago.

I use my mugs on a rotating basis so I can enjoy each one and none become too dusty on a shelf. Every time this one comes up in the rotation I remember Uncle, his smile, his appreciation, his spirit in the face of circumstances that would have broken most people, and also his dedicated family. It now has been some fifteen years since he died.

Funny the impact that the smallest gesture can have. A simple, mass-produced coffee mug keeps Uncle and all that he and his family stood for alive in my heart every single time I see it.

For many this is a season of giving, and also for many there comes a certain angst about what to buy, what to do, what another wants or needs. I suspect the perfect gift is simply seeing and honoring that other, as Uncle's family saw and honored him, and that any item chosen to represent this will be just right as long as it is selected with love and good will. Indeed, one need only pop by the likes of a Starbucks and pick a package off a shelf as long as that package contains within it the joy of giving along with a mug and anything else. I can attest that when this happens both gift and giver will remain with the recipient always, much as in my heart I carry to this day the memory and spirit of

Uncle.