That song.
That corny song.
Volume on full blast.
The sound waves crashing against any functioning ear within reach.
Reverberating through his house as he wails it from his soul.
With every fiber of his being.
Whether you liked it or not.
This was Uncle Lee to me...
The man who considered cars toys- so much so that one day, while we rode along with him, he drove his sedan by a used car with a for sale sign and he drove away in a new convertible and with a couple new friends.
The man who would take a perfectly ripe, sweet, juicy wedge of Central Valley watermelon and taint it with a generous sprinkling of salt. For every single bite.
The man who got me to switch my neurotic habit from biting my nails to chewing my lip by explaining that, "with all that dirt under your nails you'll end up getting worms!" I still cringe.
The man who played that song. That damn song. Over. And over. And over again.
Life is a highway - I want to ride it all night long
If you’re going my way I want to drive it all night long
Life is a highway - I want to ride it all night long
If you’re going my way I want to drive it all night long
*****
On the morning of my sister and my tenth birthday we woke up to an unusual site. My aunt, with whom my siblings and I had taken up residence four months prior, was sitting at the foot of our shared bed grinning from ear to ear; obviously eager to gift upon us something special. Behind her, there they sat; two clunky, large wooden boxes with the characters of Beverly Hills 90210 gracing every side.
Something special indeed.
Aunt Sheila had always had a hope chest filled with relics that harkened back to another time in her life. I assumed that she was attempting to encourage us to do the same as she enthusiastically presented Michele and me with these beauties on that day- December 17, 1992.
It worked. Sort of
This past Sunday, I carefully rummaged through my jam-packed “90210 box," sure to find some haunting artifacts that I could share with Joe and perhaps pass down to my daughters someday. Alas, as it turns out, I have an affinity for holding onto mostly junk; misfigured “participation” trophies, a Shaquille O'Neal poster with the eyes cut out, costume jewelry that has long rusted and was surely purchased by me at a thrift store, the list goes on.
I took out the few items that held sentimental or entertainment value, closed up the box, and walked out of the girls’ room (where the box is stored) to go show Joe.
One such item was this diary I kept from 1994:
We had a good laugh and I returned to the room to place the items back into the box for what Im certain would be another several years.
It was then that I noticed it.
Beside the mammoth box plastered with images of twenty-somethings pretending to be teens was the tiny, golden angel pin that my grandmother had given us as a token of rememberance for my Uncle Lee. I had completely failed to notice this pin in my forage and now, there it lay, refusing to be ignored.
It was September of 1992 and we had been living with Aunt Sheila and Uncle Greg for maybe a month. She called us into the study, sat us down, and explained to us, through uncontrollable tears, that her brother, Uncle Lee, had been diagnosed with leukemia. I knew it was a type of cancer. I knew my strong uncle would get through it. I knew he would be fine.
On March 4, 1994 Uncle Greg picked us up from school early. We were all together in the Dodge Caravan preparing to drop Aunt Sheila off at the airport; she was taking another trip to go see Uncle Lee at the hospital at Stanford.
It was too late.
It was too late.
“You guys, your uncle died two days ago."
This would become the first of three death announcements my aunt would have to make to us within 15 years. Three announcements that she uttered with strength and deep, deep pain. It had become so common that I feared anytime she asked us to gather in a room, mourning would soon follow.
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Leonard Lee was born on October 9, 1967 to Leonard Lewis and Helen Pollard. From the moment of his conception he was considered a miracle child. Papa Lew, 39, and Grandma Helen, 37, had experienced infertility issues for several years. The adoptions of Sheila Marie in 1955 and Melody Kay in 1957 made the Pollards a pristine, happy family of four. The surprise pregnancy and birth of Lee several years later was cause for nothing but pure celebration.
Pure, miraculous, euphoric celebration.
I know only few things about my uncle’s early life. Since I was 11 when he passed, I’m convinced many aspects of who he was have gone through an afterlife makeover; they've been crystallized in the minds and hearts of those who loved him by immaculate, romanticized versions of who he really was.
Michele says "his smile was infectious."
Marco says he was "strong. In every sense of the word."
Marshall says he was "fun. I hung out with him as much as I possibly could."
I say he deserves to be romanticized.
Today I played the song for the girls. I sang it at the top of my lungs as they looked at me with crazy eyes. I listened carefully to what the lyrics said and could understand a little more why he belted this song out as often as he could.
Life's like a road that you travel on
When there's one day here and the next day gone
Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind
There's a world outside every darkened door
Where blues won't haunt you anymore
Where the brave are free and lovers soar
Come ride with me to the distant shore...
There's no load I can't hold
Roads are rough - this I know
I'll be there when the light comes in
Just tell 'em we're survivors...
And then I played it again.
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