Finding Uncle Paul

A long-ago image came to mind from my pre-school years. We'd been out walking when Uncle Paul pointed to a patch of cup-shaped flowers peeking out from the snow.

           His eyes sparkled with wonder as he brushed off the snow, revealing bright purple petals. "These are crocuses, he said." It means spring is coming." Uncle Paul would take me on walks every day when I was little. Sometimes we'd stop in the bakery for donuts and eat them on our way home. "Don't tell your mother," he'd say with a wink. I never did, but she knew anyway. "Where have you been all this time," she'd ask and then roll her eyes, not waiting for a reply.

           "George, did you hear me?" Mom said. "Please look for my Uncle Paul. He must have wandered off again."

           I opened my eyes and found my mother standing over me. I'd been lying on the living room floor, staring at the textured ceiling, imagining order in its randomness, seeing at first, starfish, then spiders, and, lastly, roads leading to Rome.

           I'd had a meeting with the school counselor the day before. He'd told me it was time to start thinking about my future. What career did I wish to pursue? What college would I like to attend? To me, these were impossible questions. I shook the cobwebs from my head and headed for the door.

           "Don't be late for dinner if you can't find him," Mom added. I guess she didn't want to eat alone.

           I started my search on Main Street. Uncle Paul still takes walks, but by himself. I'd quit going years ago, thinking it wasn't cool to be seen with him. I was past that juvenile frame of mind, but he'd gotten over the habit of asking me, and I'd never volunteered. Inertia, I guess.

           Mom calls Uncle Paul's walks wandering, but that makes him sound as if he's senile. I don't think he is, but I respect her concern, so I go out to look for him whenever she asks. Besides, there's the possibility that she is right. I want to make sure he's safe, but I also think that someone his age should be permitted to do as he pleases. Being housebound would kill him.

           Main Street is different than it used to be. The bakery shop is now a karate studio. The butcher shop is a nail salon, and the old A & P houses a Brewery/Pub. He wouldn't be inside any of those places, and I didn't see him anywhere on the street. I decided to try the park.

           Acorn Park was where Uncle Paul took me fishing, at the river, but we hadn't done that for a long time. I chose a path to the park's populous area with a running trail, a pavilion, and benches that overlooked the river, but I only found dog walkers. Then I saw Alana, a red-haired girl, sitting on a bench. I'd met her just yesterday in the school hallway.

           I'd just come out of the counselor's office, and I'd been thinking about the questions he'd asked me. Suddenly, I'd walked right into her. Her books had sprawled across the floor, and I dropped my own when I tried to catch hers.

            "Sorry. I'm so clumsy," Alana had said.

           "No, it's my fault." I bent to the floor for her books. When I got up, Alana smiled as bright as sunshine.

           By this time, the hallway had cleared, and the bell had rung. Another girl, the one Alana had been walking with, motioned that they'd better get going.

           I watched them walk away, their footfalls echoing in the empty hallway. Then Alana turned around and said, "Nice bumping into you." The other girl laughed.

           A barking dog snapped me out of my reverie. "Have you seen an old, gray-haired man out walking around here?" I asked her, still thinking about yesterday.

           Her eyes were bright circles staring at me. I could see that she recognized me. "I've seen several old men."

           I patted my head, trying to down my cowlick. "This one would be about six feet tall, big nose, and maybe wearing a fishing hat."

           Alana nodded. "He may have gone that way." She pointed to a path in the woods, beyond the clearing. "Comm'n," she said and started walking as if she had been waiting for me. I had to run to catch up. We traveled single file along a narrow path, still wet from an earlier downpour, through the woods with the sound of the river approaching. Alana turned her head. "I'm still here," I said.

           She grabbed my hand. "There's a cliff coming."

           I remembered this path from my fishing days with Uncle Paul, but it seemed narrower now, and the footing felt less certain. But I wasn't thinking these things at the time. I wasn't even thinking about Uncle Paul. I just enjoyed the feel of Alana's fingers entangled in mine.

           The path turned to stone covered in wet moss. It ran along the top of the cliff alongside the river that ran below.  Then, Alana slipped, pulling me down. For a moment, I thought we would both tumble over the edge, but we came to a safe stop. We pulled ourselves up and brushed each other off.

           "Whew, that was close," Alana said.

           My heart pounded. "You don't have to do this," I said. I'll go on alone."

           Alana's face turned indignant. "I want to help. Your Uncle comes to the park often, and we talk. He's a nice man."

           Suddenly, I wanted to kiss her, but then, I heard a cry from below.

           "Did you hear that?"

           Alana nodded. "It sounded like a man."

           Then, she looked over the cliff. There, I think that's him. She said, pointing to a lump on the riverbed.

           "Uncle Paul," I yelled, but there was no reply.

           "Around the bend, there's a way down, rocks jutting out that can be used as steps," Alana said.

           "Let's go."

           It was a fifteen to twenty feet decline, uneven and slippery. The injured man, who may have been Uncle Paul, was moaning as I descended as if he knew we were nearby and he didn't want to lose us. I proceeded slowly and kicked at the moss of each stone before I risked a step. One slip and I could end up like Uncle Paul or whoever was lying at the riverbed.

           Finally, I reached the bottom, my feet splashing into a few inches of water. "Okay, I made it," I called to Alana.

           "Wait for me." Alana's hair shone like fire in the sunlight that peeked between the tree branches.

           "The rocks are wet, and your legs are too short to reach them. I'm not sure I can get back up. We don't want both of us stuck down here."

           "I've done it before," she insisted. "I'm coming down."

           "Wait. Let me see if it's Uncle Paul."

           As I mentioned his name, the moaning started again. I was hoping against hope that it wasn't him, that he was already safe at home. The moans came from behind a bend in the cliff, so I couldn't see the man from where I was at.

           I waded through shallow water that ran like mini rapids across stone until I rounded the bend. Then, I saw him. I knew at once that it was Uncle Paul by the style of fishing hat perched on his head and his big honker nose that stuck out from underneath it. He was lying on his back. His torso was on dry land, but his legs were in the water. A sudden torrent could wash him away. I splashed the next several yards to his side.

           A sludge of wet leaves and twigs lay across his body. He looked ancient, much older than he had this morning at the breakfast table. He was gasping. Alive, at least, I thought. "Uncle Paul, it's me," my voice broken and uncertain when I wanted it to be strong and reassuring.

           He opened his eyes and said something in a low growl. My name, I think, although it could have been anything. There was a look of relief in his eyes before pain turned it into a grimace. The river raged behind me. Why did it have to have rained so hard this morning?

           I gasped at an open gash on his head. "You're going to be all right," I said, although I was not at all sure. "What hurts, Uncle Paul?"

           He motioned to his leg. His foot was pointed in the wrong direction, and I worried if such a horrific injury could be made right again.

           "Did you fall off the cliff?" I asked, but he didn't answer.

           "What's going on down there?" It was Alana standing above us from where Uncle Paul must have fallen. "Is it your Uncle?"

           "He's broken his leg," I yelled. "And he's groggy, maybe a concussion."

Two days later, Alana came with me to the hospital. I told her it was our first date, and she gave me a gnarled smile. We were standing outside his room, waiting for the doctor to finish his examination. We'd already been told that Uncle Paul's injuries would heal just fine. "It will just be a moment," the nurse had said. But it had already been longer than that.

           After Alana had called down to me, she called 911 while I phoned Mom. The paramedics checked Uncle Paul's vitals and got him talking. They gave him something for pain, splinted his leg, and bandaged his head. Then they pulled him up the cliff using ropes. I climbed back up the way I'd come down.

           "A penny for your thoughts, Alana said.

           "I'm remembering when we found Uncle Paul, and I thought he'd never walk again. I think I can tell the school counselor what I want to do now."

           Alana looked me in the eye, then, at the same time, we both said, "Doctor."

           At last, we got to go into Uncle Paul's room. He looked more himself although tired. I realized how close we'd come to losing him.

           "Hey George," he said. Then he caught sight of Alana. "Alana! You two know each other?" He seemed pleased with the idea.

           We separated our hands. "Alana helped me find you," I said.

           "Your Mother said. I'm indebted to the both of you."

It was a Saturday morning in March of the following year. There was a knock on the door. "That's Alana," I said to Uncle Paul. Are you ready to go?"

           "Ready and able," Uncle Paul said. The three of us began our Saturday morning walk, as we had each weather-permitting weekend morning since Uncle Paul recovered. Alana and I had both been accepted to State college, where we would begin our college careers.

           This was a warm March morning, but an inch of snow still covered the ground. We'd only just gotten out of the door when Uncle Paul stopped and bent to the ground. "These are crocuses," he said. "It means spring is coming."

           Alana laughed and said, "Of course, Uncle Paul. Spring comes every year."