York

I sat with the book open in my hands for an hour. With any other person from any other place, maybe an open book is a sign that the conversation is almost over and I'm trying to read. But with my uncle, and with me, it's just an absent-minded gesture on my part, and I guess perhaps he knows it. If he doesn't, he's ignored the signal. He keeps talking.
There aren't many people I've met who can out-talk me. These are almost always people who are willing to say what's on their mind right over top of what I'm trying to say at the same time. There's a friend from high school, a person I met in college, and a half dozen of my own family members. Maybe there's something unusual about Van Arsdales, but I'm not here to make generalizations.
"I've been around for a few years and I tell you I haven't seen any of these big cities--I mean they've all got these liberal mayors, right? Liberal governments that want to preserve these socialist ideas, and they just don't work. Look at Detroit, at Philadelphia, at Atlanta, at San Diego, for crying out loud. These cities are just working themselves down into the ground at this point." My uncle's voice is loud and confident and wavery. It's distracting for about a sentence or two and then you forget that age is getting the better of his control over his vocal folds. You forget that he's very old at all, sometimes, and the rascal comes out and you're staring at a high-school kid again. "When they started trying to tax people and create these programs, the smart people with all the money knew what was coming and they just moved out to the outsides of the city. Sometimes, the cities would try to absorb that part, too, like they did in Los Angeles--"
"Well, the city is the county, there--"
"Exactly, but in other places like Detroit, the smaller towns said 'Get your hands off our tax money!' And so the cities are trying to spend spend spend but they don't have any money, and look where it's got them!" He's not done. He talks his piece and then I interject.
"But what about Finland. What about Norway? These countries are surprisingly socialist and they seem to be working--"
"But what about them is working? Sure, I guess in Finland they've got a good education system, but how are they doing it? And what measure are we using to guage their success?"
"Well, they recruit the top kids in each class and pay educators like professionals, so I think--"
"They certainly don't do that here! What did they pay you? Scraps? Anyway, these countries that are socialist, maybe they've got some limited success right now, but how much is everybody making anyway? Are they paying the kid at the McDonalds the same as the teacher? You say they pay teachers like professionals. Socialism is pay everybody the same."
"I've heard they have a high lower limit, is a big part of it. But not the same. And their healthcare and--"
"That's what I'm saying. These aren't exactly socialist countries. Not like true socialism. And true socialism hasn't worked; won't work. It's not a system that works with humans. There's always somebody at the top--who watches the watchers, is all I'm saying. There's no accountability at the top."
Eventually I spit out that Finland and Norway are about the size of Atlanta, population-wise, and they seem to be successful at what Atlanta has failed to do, and that's all I'm saying. My uncle isn't buying what I'm selling.
"You're a smart guy. Do you think it would work here?"
"I'm not sure we give cities the freedom they would need to pull it off."
"Well, it won't work here."
We disagree about a few historical events, about the utility of socialist programs, about the impact of debt, and a few other things. Most of the time, I'm just trying to insert a generous thought now and then, and he's trying to push me to think . . . like him? I'm not sure. I know he doesn't want an automoton for a nephew, and I know he likes the challenge of convincing me. But I'm not sure what he wants me to believe. Finally, I close the book. It's more an admission that I'll never read than a gesture of finality. We keep talking.
The cat climbs up in my lap and purrs with each inhalation and exhalation. She slowly sheds wads of hair into my hand and she licks my forearm and opens her mouth to put her teeth on my skin. She doesn't bite, she just . . . mouths me. Uncle Dave tells a story about my grandmother, how she used to check her sons for pinworms when they were four, just to make sure that the dirt they inevitably eat isn't making them sick. She comes in the middle of the night to check their bottoms, and it's so very grandma to do it that way, and the way he tells it is so coincidental, like it happened (oh well) and it almost wasn't worth noting, I almost fall out of my chair laughing.
We talk about Van Arsdales, and he shows me a couple graves on his phone. The names are almost illegible.
"And then I walked over behind this big rock, and there it was!"
He swipes right and shows me a plaque with the names of all the people buried in the cemetery. There are a dozen Van Arsdales.
"And this is only a two hour drive from here! I bet they're all related to us. Most of them are."

The next morning he comes to me and he shows me his twitter.
"This is my personal twitter account, not the personality. Thats a different account. This is just me. See? It's got my face. Are you on twitter?"
I am. He has about 10.9 thousand more followers than I do. This is shocking to me for a few dozen reasons, none of which include any big-headed ideas about my Internet notoriety. A flitting thought passes through me: if he linked to my blog, how many hits would I get?
"This is what I tweeted yesterday after we talked." He holds up his phone to read it. "'Youth is full of idealism that tends to die in the cold light of old age. Keep the best parts.' That's about you."
I think he's proud of me? In a glancing way, possibly looking down his nose over his pince-nez, humming into the rarified air of old age about how little I know as a young person? I can't tell. Maybe he's looking back into his own past and wishing a bit for that old optimism about how all humans might have infinite potential to achieve just exactly what it is tha they want. He's inscrutable.

We sit down on the couch today, not at the table. I'm at a better angle for the cat to put her claws into me, and she does, up on my chest. Then, as she kneads me, she sits down with her butt on my lap. It's a weird pose and it doesn't look comfortable, but she sounds like it must be from the roar of her purr. My aunt sees it and says "Oh, Lucy," but that's the end of it. I can move if I want to.
My uncle asks if I've ever worked in restaurants. He's gotten to the end of a story about my dad, and he's tied it to a job he had in the past.
"Oh, no. Not yet. I don't think I would want to."
"Well, I had an old boss. He was a good boss: I learned a lot from him, but I was ready to move on. I told him where I was going and I asked for some advice about the restauraunt business, because I'd be doing some of that, and he said 'Well, first: I think you're an idiot for leaving.' And he was right. Up there, it was just coal miners and hookers, and that's not the kind of clientele that keeps a business running. Anyway, he told me 'There's only one thing to know about restaurants.' And it comes in the form of a rhyme. He said 'Cold food cold. Hot food hot. Front door open and back door locked.' Well, I followed that once I figured it out and it worked for me."
"Serve food people want."
"It's almost as simple as that."
"I would never go into the restaurant business. So many of them fail."
"Well, I've made money at it, I've made money several places. You just have to know what you're doing, mostly." He says it's all about the customer, really. He switches gears. We're talking about debt at this point, and I don't want a credit card, or a mortgage. "In the hotel business, you can try to eliminate cost, but it's always easier to raise revenues." I don't know what this has to do with me not wanting a loan on a car. "The board would say 'Why, you're wasting so much money on electricity,' and at the time we were spending maybe eleven thousand a month on electricity. Well, we talked about these motion detectors, these gizmos you put up on the wall and they watch the room and when the lady who's got the room steps out for the day, maybe she's set the a/c to sixty three. That may not be her fault; people don't know how to operate the units sometimes, and sometimes she's just not thinking about it. Well, I can get the unit to reset the temperature--"
"To eighty."
"To seventy two! Not hot, but much better than the sixty something it was on. And lots of people won't even notice when they walk back in. But I tell you, I had it happen to me once and I got right on the phone and I said 'Don't I have this room?' They said of course, and I said 'Don't I have it from three at check-in until eleven at check-out? Then I don't like you fiddling with what temperature I set my room to! It's my room!' So I went back the the board with this idea and we put plaques up, instead, and it said 'You set the temperature to whatever you want it to be, and you keep it there, and we promise we won't mess with it like the guy across the street, who has the motion detectors.' And it said 'If anything is wrong, you let us know and the stay is on us.' And you know what? We jacked up prices ten dollars a night. People felt like they were getting better value, and we didn't have to really change a thing. Well, revenues went way up and I was spending about the same, and just because we were doing things this way, I was able to shut up that guy on the board."
I nod like I understand what this has to do with my terror of compounding interest. His "Well, maybe I want a nice car. And it's my reward for working hard" made more sense than this, not that I would buy a car as a reward for myself. And if I did, I wouldn't pay someone else a monthly fee for the privilege.
And the cat kept putting her claws into the skin below my collarbone.

I should have just laid out my recorder. I should have, not because my uncle has better stories than other people I talk to, but perhaps because he has more. It seemed like all he had were stories and they were bursting from him like a leak in a dam, or the bottom of a boat in an old cartoon. You stick your finger in one and the next one jets out faster than you can get to it. I've forgotten half of what he said and I'm forgetting the other half. I used to pride myself on my good ability with memory, but I can't keep straight which town he lived in when he used to visit the grandmother who had them picking cherries. I can't remember which story he was trying to illustrate when he said "I know your dad better than any other person alive. Who knows your sister better than you? Who knows you better than your brother?" It's true, but I can't remember the context. I've actually recounted the two stories I remember the most of, and the tighter I try to frame the other bits that float up, the more they drift away from me. It's like the old cliche about holding sand in your fist.

I hadn't seen my aunt and uncle for a long time--since a stray Thanksgiving a few years back. It's likely I may not see them for another stretch. But this time, I'll at least have some things I remember specifically. This time, I'll remember how often my aunt tried to make sure I had something to drink. "Do you want a soda? I have lemonade. Do you drink tea?" She wanted to make sure I was taken care of, and that was the first question in the string: do I have enough to drink? How about my clothes, the room, the bike, or food? But a drink first. It's simple, and she can get to it right now. This time, I'll remember how my cousin laughed when he told a story about a fight he got into at a hotel, a fight with a drunk dad who tried to get after his younger brother, and how my uncle came and popped him a good solid hit in the nose. This time, I'll remember things specifically, because I at least wrote it down. But I wish I had recorded it anyway, because things will fade. I'll forget the quality of his voice and how it reminded me of my grandfather I barely knew. I'll forget the heat and the weight of the night air when we sat outside and ate grilled corn. I'll forget, and I'll fill my head with other memories, and I'll remember because I wrote things down.

And I won't regret not having read my book. I know that for sure.