Alex Chaoukouri
As my first quarter at the University of Washington begins, I can’t help but be reminded of another 17-year-old heading to Seattle from eastern Washington, exactly 59 years ago. That 17-year-old was my uncle, Denny, who passed away near the end of August after an agonizing battle with Lewy Body Dementia. Describing Denny as my uncle doesn’t really capture our relationship properly; he was almost like a grandfather to me.
Both of my grandparents passed away when I was an infant, so I never really got to have the experiences of warm chocolate chip cookies at Grandma’s house or a fishing trip with Grandpa. Instead, I had four lovely aunts who were happy to step into the role of my grandmothers. Unfortunately for me, they had their own grandkids that they had to love and care for, and I always played second fiddle to them. With Denny, it was different. He had grandchildren, but contact was minimal and they lived far away, so throughout my childhood, he was all mine.
My uncle Denny was a very awkward fellow, someone they used to refer to as an “odd duck,” but would now likely be understood to be someone on the Autism spectrum. He lived on his own in a house on a hill in Harrison, Idaho, where he took mile-long walks daily along Coeur d’Alene lake and ate a strictly zero gluten and zero refined sugar diet. He didn’t talk much, was famous for his Irish goodbye (leaving without a word), and I loved every part of him. I myself am a rather “odd duck,” and I never felt like I had to put on a mask around Denny. We were just two odd ducks, swimming together.
Denny would drive down to Spokane every Sunday to attend his weekly NA meeting, and either before or afterwards, he would come by my house bearing a gift: pieces of bark, interesting shaped rocks, pieces of deer antlers. If he didn’t find anything for me on his walks that week, he would bring me a can of black olives and a jar of dill pickles. One time, he even brought me a jar of ash from Mt. Saint Helens. I don’t think I ever heard Denny verbally tell me that he loved me, but he absolutely showed it.
It was never just physical things that Denny bestowed upon me, but also a piece of wisdom every time I saw him. He was the smartest man I ever knew, and I like to think I’m much smarter because of him. He let me ask questions and made sure to explain everything thoroughly. One time specifically, I asked him about my relationship with the children of my cousins, and he gave me a seemingly endless spiel about the difference between second cousins and first cousins once removed. He even drew me a whole family tree. He had this immense passion for knowledge, and he wanted to share that with me.
The one day a year that I was guaranteed to see my uncle Denny was the 4th of July. That morning, my mom and I (plus a friend of my choice) would pack up our sleeping bags and drive up to Harrison, where Denny was always happy to greet us. We would go play down at the lake, and after a long, fun-filled day, we would make our way up the hill and find that Denny had grilled us burgers and hot dogs. After that, it was tradition to watch “The Princess Bride” until sundown, when we would then go sit on a rickety picnic table and watch the fireworks show that was being held down at the lake.
It was always the morning of July 5th that Denny would demonstrate his adoration for nature. The friend I had chosen for that trip and myself would climb into his truck and he would take us to see all the interesting quirks Harrison had to offer. In particular, there was a sailboat wreck he liked to take me to, which my young self thought was the coolest thing in the world. I think that might be where I want to spread his ashes.
Although Denny’s appearances in my life were always brief, his impact remains long lasting. Every time I watch an episode of “Jeopardy,” I can’t help but hear his voice in my ear, calling out each answer several seconds before any of the contestants buzzed it in. I close my eyes and see the way he smiled the last time he ever looked at me before he passed, the recognition on his face despite having lost his ability to remember practically anything else. When I take my first steps onto the University of Washington campus, a piece of him will be with me in my dragonfly necklace, and I hope he’ll be happy to be back where he spent so much time “striking and marching” in the late ’60s.
The anxiety of uprooting my entire life and moving to a new place without my parents has been paralyzing, but each time I feel like I’m suffocating, I think about this poster that my uncle Denny kept on the door to his garage, and I feel a little bit better. It was the Irish Philosophy:
“There are only two things to worry about: either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well, there is nothing to worry about.
If you are sick, there are two things to worry about: either you will get well or you will die.
If you get well, there is nothing to worry about.
If you die, there are only two things to worry about: either you will go to heaven or hell.
If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.
But if you go to hell, you’ll be so damn busy shaking hands with friends you won’t have time to worry.”
Alex Chaoukouri just graduated from Central Valley High School with honors and is now attending the University of Washington to study law.
