Ode to Uncle John

I will touch you today in my own special way,
Where levity and memories unite.
We’ll laugh and we’ll cry, everyone must die,
But I know that John’s here tonight.

He’s where he can watch, with his bourbon or scotch.
Probably got his arm ‘round my dad.
They’re sitting on a cloud, watching this crowd.
Somehow that makes me feel glad.

Well for cryin’ out loud, it’s a hell of a crowd,
But I’m not just surprised that he knew ya’.
A cantankerous old cuss, but just one of us,
He was perfect as the mayor of Tahuya.

Now you’ll select, the one you’ll elect,
To fill some mighty big shoes.
With his hand on the wheel, he was velvet and steel,
But someone who’d paid the right dues.

Pay tribute to the man, he lived his own plan.
He charted and dated and signed it.
For all of our sake, he created a wake,
And all of us fell in behind it.

I’ll remember the sights and wonderful nights,
As the sun settles over Mount George.
If it weren’t for the rain, Hood Canal would drain.
Now, that’d be a hell of a gorge.

Sitting on the porch, with oysters to scorch,
Or to barbeque a bucket of fish.
To do it once more, with a man I adore,
I’d call it my number one wish.

He told all the stories, the James’ family glories.
You know, he swam to Hoods Port as a kid.
So I did it to, cuz that’s what you do,
To be part of the things that he did.

In days long gone, my father drank with John.
They were drinking buddies right to the core.
That made it special, so “Regular or Ethyl?”
Getting tanked up with John was a chore!

If he’s buying, you let’m. But don’t wager or bet’m,
Especially if he’s dealing at bridge.
He stays in my mind, as one of a kind,
Like a silhouette, he stands on a ridge.

His friend Errol Flynn, had a fondness for gin.
Their carousing was wild and ferocious.
But a light weight compared, to our fair haired,
For he died years ago of sclerosis.

The Officer’s Club was a gentlemen’s pub,
Ronald Reagan was damned near a resident.      
Said young actor Ron, to his drinking friend John,
“I’m thinking of running for President.”

So between you and I, I voted for the guy.
After all, Uncle John had advised him.
He knew for a fact that Reagan couldn’t act,
But his Presidency never surprised him.

That puts me in a crowd of which I am proud,
A small group apart from the masses.
With the privilege to say they spent even a day,
With a bottle and John and two glasses.

He was generous and kind, but tough in a bind.
As a champion, he knew how to win.
And pity those foes who chose to oppose,
For they knew not the man from within.

The legends I relish, are the ones I embellish,
Like his cars that he drove off the banks.
Or the mail boxes gored by his battered old Ford.
The man had a penchant for tanks.

He drove Buick’s for a while, then he went out in style,
He switched over to Cadillac’s instead.
As an old Naval Warrior, they’re more like a Destroyer,
Which suited his foot made of lead.

He drove by the code of the Old Burma Road,
The biggest car is King of The Lane.
First one to the curve or the last one to swerve,
Countless tourists would curse him in vain.

When the lid was on tight, it was, “Oh...Alright.”
He really was not one to be picky,
In a grumpy sort of way, he’d grin and he’d say,
I’m not mad at anyone, ‘cept Ricky.

Out of tradition I suppose, God only knows,
The liquor cabinet never ran dry.
No hinges did it bore, for it never had a door.
Even strangers were welcome to come by.

He certainly had the smarts for culinary arts,
But he never felt the need or the yearning.
A potato to bake, throw on a steak.
They’re done if the kitchen starts burning.

So he wouldn’t get stranded, or arrive empty handed,
We sent him with his own deck of cards.
He’ll appear at “The Gates”, requesting the dates
Of any action or tournaments, from the guards.

To the marines at the gate, “Where’s the bridge game at eight?
Send someone to show me around!  
Never let it be said, that I showed up dead.
Tell the Skipper that James is in town!”

Now we’re here on the lawn, playing  “Taps” for John.
Full honors and a military salute,
A Navy color guard in his own front yard.
Not bad for a crusty galoot.

Fare thee well old friend, but we’ve got to end,
You’ve lived a great life and how.
We’ll crack a few beers, in forty-five years.
But we’re saying goodbye for right now.

                                                                 Poem Stranger