Marina Memories #2: Uncle Steve
Sep. 22nd, 2004 01:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trishkitUncle Steve
Our family business is a marina. My sister and I spent untold hours there over the years. My memories of my dad are inextricably linked with the Marina. The Marina has been both good and bad for all of us. Every aspect of my life with my dad has been entwined with that place. He’s getting ready to retire in the next couple of years and I’m having a hard time imagining him without it. I think he is too
Jim “Steve” Stevenson was the founder and a fixture of the Marina. Shortly after WWII Steve and his friend Jack opened a business selling small boats, lawnmowers and gasoline. My dad started out working as a student during the summer and bought a share in the business the year my sister and I were born. As the years passed by the boats got bigger, Jack got crazier and Steve got crankier. This is the story of Steve.
By the time I knew him, Uncle Steve, who was neither my uncle nor named Steve, was a crusty old man. He spent each day stationed behind the service counter, striking terror in the hearts of the legions of young boys who worked at the Marina over the years. The service counter had a half door that was the only access to the shop from the store. He was short and hunched over, an early sign of the arthritis that would cripple him. With his deep raspy voice and cantankerous demeanour, he was like a troll waiting for a billy goat to pass by.
Steve was rude and kind of scary but the customers loved him. Surprisingly enough, he was an excellent salesman. I suppose that people thought that a man that rude had to be trustworthy. He could sell anything to anyone and did for many years.
His wife was a large woman, with a deep voice, booming laugh and orange lipstick, ideally suited to her name: Ethel. The highlight of their lives was their annual trip to Las Vegas. There wasn’t very much that Steve got excited about, but Las Vegas was at the top of the list. Their beloved beagle Toby was a close second.
My sister and I loved Uncle Steve unreservedly. We spent every Wednesday afternoon at the Marina, ostensibly spending time with our father. Dad was usually busy, so Steve was often stuck babysitting, since he rarely ventured forth from behind the service counter. Cat Pee and I would swing back and forth on the half door while we prattled endlessly on about the minutiae of our tiny little lives. Steve chain smoked Sweet Caporals and probably prayed for deliverance, although he was never rude or impatient with us.
Years later, when I became an official employee at the Marina, the rest of the staff (many of whom had started out as gas boys under Steve’s reign of terror) were surprised at my memories of Steve. They couldn’t believe that he (and Ethel) babysat us for a week when we were six and didn’t kill us (or that we didn’t die from smoke inhalation). You have to understand that my sister and I were incredibly picky eaters as children. You have no idea. At the time of Mom and Dad’s Acapulco trip, all that we would eat was frozen waffles, apples and pudding (I didn’t figure out that normal people didn’t add eggs to instant pudding until I made pudding myself in university. My mom is very cunning). Apparently Uncle Steve thought that my parents just weren’t trying hard enough to make us eat properly. That belief didn’t withstand our first meal together. We had all the waffles we wanted that week. Everybody has their Kryptonite, and the tears of two adorable twin girls brought Steve to his knees in a heartbeat.
Steve retired when his arthritis got too bad. He spent his final years in a great deal of pain. The only highlight of his days was the annual trip to Las Vegas. His health got worse and worse and he knew that his end was near. He was determined to get to Las Vegas one last time and die there. Luckily (for poor Ethel), that plan was halted in its tracks and he was dragged kicking and screaming to the hospital for the last time. His suffering came to an end about six years ago.
Steve had made it very clear that he didn’t want a funeral. We waited until the summer and then had a memorial party at their house that was located behind the Marina. It became a staff reunion, with people we hadn’t seen in years showing up to say goodbye. It was also a helluva party, with a bagpiper and a sing-along to YMCA by the Village People (Steve had been in the Navy during the war). We all had a shot of the horrible whiskey that he loved and drank a final toast to the old man. Then we spread his ashes.
A few of us trooped down to the docks and my friend Shaun took charge. He and his mom (and a brother) were former employees and had become very close to Steve and Ethel in their declining years. It was very appropriate for him to manage the wooden container that held Steve’s final remains. I wish that I could have joined in and said a few words, but I was crying too much. It just seemed wrong somehow as I watched his ashes float upon the murky water of the river. Surely an interment requires some sort of clergy? I think that being dumped off the end of the gas dock is an ignominious end to a life (luckily no one came by needing gas while we did it). There is no question that this is exactly what Steve wanted, but it still seems ..unfinished to me.
Rest in peace, Uncle Steve. Ethel joined him last year and I’m sure that they (and Toby) are gambling their heads off as I write.
Our family business is a marina. My sister and I spent untold hours there over the years. My memories of my dad are inextricably linked with the Marina. The Marina has been both good and bad for all of us. Every aspect of my life with my dad has been entwined with that place. He’s getting ready to retire in the next couple of years and I’m having a hard time imagining him without it. I think he is too
Jim “Steve” Stevenson was the founder and a fixture of the Marina. Shortly after WWII Steve and his friend Jack opened a business selling small boats, lawnmowers and gasoline. My dad started out working as a student during the summer and bought a share in the business the year my sister and I were born. As the years passed by the boats got bigger, Jack got crazier and Steve got crankier. This is the story of Steve.
By the time I knew him, Uncle Steve, who was neither my uncle nor named Steve, was a crusty old man. He spent each day stationed behind the service counter, striking terror in the hearts of the legions of young boys who worked at the Marina over the years. The service counter had a half door that was the only access to the shop from the store. He was short and hunched over, an early sign of the arthritis that would cripple him. With his deep raspy voice and cantankerous demeanour, he was like a troll waiting for a billy goat to pass by.
Steve was rude and kind of scary but the customers loved him. Surprisingly enough, he was an excellent salesman. I suppose that people thought that a man that rude had to be trustworthy. He could sell anything to anyone and did for many years.
His wife was a large woman, with a deep voice, booming laugh and orange lipstick, ideally suited to her name: Ethel. The highlight of their lives was their annual trip to Las Vegas. There wasn’t very much that Steve got excited about, but Las Vegas was at the top of the list. Their beloved beagle Toby was a close second.
My sister and I loved Uncle Steve unreservedly. We spent every Wednesday afternoon at the Marina, ostensibly spending time with our father. Dad was usually busy, so Steve was often stuck babysitting, since he rarely ventured forth from behind the service counter. Cat Pee and I would swing back and forth on the half door while we prattled endlessly on about the minutiae of our tiny little lives. Steve chain smoked Sweet Caporals and probably prayed for deliverance, although he was never rude or impatient with us.
Years later, when I became an official employee at the Marina, the rest of the staff (many of whom had started out as gas boys under Steve’s reign of terror) were surprised at my memories of Steve. They couldn’t believe that he (and Ethel) babysat us for a week when we were six and didn’t kill us (or that we didn’t die from smoke inhalation). You have to understand that my sister and I were incredibly picky eaters as children. You have no idea. At the time of Mom and Dad’s Acapulco trip, all that we would eat was frozen waffles, apples and pudding (I didn’t figure out that normal people didn’t add eggs to instant pudding until I made pudding myself in university. My mom is very cunning). Apparently Uncle Steve thought that my parents just weren’t trying hard enough to make us eat properly. That belief didn’t withstand our first meal together. We had all the waffles we wanted that week. Everybody has their Kryptonite, and the tears of two adorable twin girls brought Steve to his knees in a heartbeat.
Steve retired when his arthritis got too bad. He spent his final years in a great deal of pain. The only highlight of his days was the annual trip to Las Vegas. His health got worse and worse and he knew that his end was near. He was determined to get to Las Vegas one last time and die there. Luckily (for poor Ethel), that plan was halted in its tracks and he was dragged kicking and screaming to the hospital for the last time. His suffering came to an end about six years ago.
Steve had made it very clear that he didn’t want a funeral. We waited until the summer and then had a memorial party at their house that was located behind the Marina. It became a staff reunion, with people we hadn’t seen in years showing up to say goodbye. It was also a helluva party, with a bagpiper and a sing-along to YMCA by the Village People (Steve had been in the Navy during the war). We all had a shot of the horrible whiskey that he loved and drank a final toast to the old man. Then we spread his ashes.
A few of us trooped down to the docks and my friend Shaun took charge. He and his mom (and a brother) were former employees and had become very close to Steve and Ethel in their declining years. It was very appropriate for him to manage the wooden container that held Steve’s final remains. I wish that I could have joined in and said a few words, but I was crying too much. It just seemed wrong somehow as I watched his ashes float upon the murky water of the river. Surely an interment requires some sort of clergy? I think that being dumped off the end of the gas dock is an ignominious end to a life (luckily no one came by needing gas while we did it). There is no question that this is exactly what Steve wanted, but it still seems ..unfinished to me.
Rest in peace, Uncle Steve. Ethel joined him last year and I’m sure that they (and Toby) are gambling their heads off as I write.
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Date: 2004-09-22 11:24 am (UTC)Karma can be a bitch!
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Date: 2004-09-22 06:50 pm (UTC)