The Setting Sun of Failure

I guess I should introduce myself to you. You kinda need to know who I am, or at least know my name. It's Nick Lewis. I turned 16 in March. I just got my license last weekend, finally. I felt like such a tool. The first time I went for my license I bombed it so bad. Of course I did, right? I screwed it up royally, sixty-four points taken off. The minimum is eight. I wish I could blame the fella who failed me, but I can’t. I did not stop on a four-way stop sign, brutalized the parallel parking. . . frick! I even sped! Nope, I couldn’t blame it on Mr. Nelson, the wheezing, coughing, bad-breathed driver tester. For the last 40 years he has failed punks like me. I knew from the second he saw my bleached blond hair that I was going to blow it, and I did! I panicked like I usually do. Somehow though, last Saturday, on my second attempt, six months after the first attempt, I passed the driver's test.
That is what Uncle Stan and I were talking about the other night.We were sitting in the grain truck facing the most beautiful harvest moon. I swear I had never been more at peace in my entire life than I was at that moment. We made a little small talk. Uncle talked about his trip to Korea where he had been the school principal last winter.
“The kids asked for my autograph. They thought I was James Bond.” Uncle said.
“I could see them making that mistake," I replied. "Truth is, we don’t all look like cookie-cutter images of one another like Asians. They all look the same: Chinese, Japanese, Koreans... Who can tell?”
It made me laugh that the Koreans thought Uncle was James Bond. Uncle, did clean up well, he is quite handsome, not only for a guy reaching his 70's. With his full slicked-back, streaked grey, white and black hair, along with his charm and fitness, he could have fooled an American into thinking he was Sean Connery! For awhile Uncle and I never said much, we just watched the Horizon ‘till the sun disappeared. That night, a mile-and-a-half from Eatonia on our quarter section of land, in the grain truck with the sloping hills running into the horizon, the unharvested wheat standing tall, waving in the wind like a friend waving from the back seat of a school bus, there was no place I would have rather been. I was not really thinking about anything, just enjoying the moment. I felt like I was in Heaven actually! I am not sure where my worries went. The colours of the setting sun and the calmness of the night really did me in. I am a sucker for stuff like that. When the moon fully disappeared we picked up where we left off.
“Way to go with the drivers test.” Uncle said.
“Yeah, I am pumped!” I replied. What I was really thinking about though, was how much of a loser I was for failing the driver's test so badly the first time. Why do I always panic? I can’t handle stress. I started to think about one of the worst experiences of my life, when I was eight and entered my first and only piano recital.
“You can go visit all your lady friends up in Unity now!” Uncle said.
Uncle loved kidding with me about girls. I did not really hear his comment about the ladies though; I did not care too much about dimes at that moment. I could not stop thinking about that piano recital.
When I was eight years old my mom put me in piano lessons. I had no desire to be in the stupid piano lessons, but my mom, trying to exorcise her own demons from her childhood, insisted that I take at least one year of piano. If I didn’t she said I would regret it, like she regretted quitting piano when she was a girl. I swear piano lessons made me into a stress-bag! They must have! The lessons were at this old lady's house; her name was Mrs. Lillian Copeland. Thinking about her still gives me the chills. It was like I took piano lessons from a ghost, it really was! The house was faded yellow and blue, definitely a house that two old birds would live in. The inside was not so bad: the dark brown shag carpet had a particular warmth too it, the antique chandeliers were similar to my grandma and grandpa's place in the Okanagan. I loved my grandparents place, so I don’t think it was the house so much that gave me the shivers, but Mr. and Mrs. Copeland. Mrs. Copeland was a bigger lady, not obese at all, but just the size you would expect an average lady with big bones in her seventies to be. She always wore bright flowered dresses and jewelry from the '60s, I think the particular item she wore around her neck was a broach. What a creepy word, "broach". I bet Mr. Copeland gave it to her years ago, probably on her wedding night. Sitting beside Mrs. Copeland during our piano lessons was one of the most intimidating moments of my eight-year old life. She was so firm with me, was such a presence. In the piano room she was a dictator, a god. Her voice was like a quivering ghost, speaking to me in the wind. It's amazing I even played one note correctly in her presence.
Finally, one day when she brought up an optional recital, in my fear of the ghost sitting beside me, I said I would play. Sitting in the grain truck, I was thinking about why I said I would do it. That recital had to have been the moment I became a stress-bag. The day of the recital came and my name was announced from the micro-phone. I do not remember every detail of the recital. I remember two details. Their were three, four-year old child-prodigies playing before me, each playing every note to perfection. It threw me off so much that when I began to walk down the middle aisle of the recital hall I started quivering like a baby bird with a broken wing. The recital hall felt like it was a packed Roman Catholic cathedral. All eyes were on me. Unfortunately, I was not ready for this type of spot-light. As I sat down, putting my fingers on the keys, I panicked: I could not find the middle C. This piano was not labeled with a big letter C like the one at Mrs. Copeland's. Not knowing where the middle C was I started the piece in the wrong place. Suddenly my emotions blew up all over the piano; the keyboard was soaked with my tears. Embarrassed, I gave up and ran to my mom's waiting arms.
As I was thinking about the recital and Mrs. Lillian Copeland, Uncle Stan started encouraging me about school again. Uncle Stan had been encouraging me for years; each year he told me it could be the year I could excel at school. “Did I ever tell you about how hard it was for me to go to university?” he asked.
“I, I, I think so.” I stuttered. I started stuttering when I was like, 12. Pretty embarrassing! When I do it, I feel like a volcano: the volcano bursts with every stutter.
“I decided to leave the ministry in '65 to become a teacher. It was really hard for me. We moved to Oregon for university. I can’t believe we did it. Hilda was amazing! She got us through it. I was an awful student to start, but I kept at it and I got better. Education is really important. You can do it!”
Uncle’s voice weakened when he said "Hilda". Auntie Hilda died over eleven years ago. She got aplastic anemia. I can’t describe it to you. I am pretty poor at science stuff. From what I understand, your body quits producing certain cells. That sounds like cancer, doesn’t it? Well, she never had cancer. Anyway, Auntie got a staff infection in the Edmonton Hospital eleven years ago. It killed her. It should never have happened. Everyone has told me that Auntie was the most amazing lady. I wish I could remember her better. Basically, ever since Auntie died, Uncle has been coming to our farm every harvest to help. It's pretty amazing! Most people when they retire, they take it easy. They sit on their porch and think they have done their part for the planet. Not Uncle! He has never quit; he never will.
“I miss Hilda every day. I cried the day I forgot what she smelt like! In my dreams I still see her face clearly. I am thankful that I see her face vividly in dreams because often I can’t remember her face. She was so beautiful!” he said. Uncle was choking back the emotion.
I had no clue what to say. It is so hard let someone know that you care. It’s awful how hard it is to use English. I managed to stutter out how I felt though. “Au-Au-Auntie was awesome! You are awesome. You helping us like you do is crazy.” I paused for a minute then said, “We love you Uncle. We don’t deserve you.”
We didn’t deserve him; I am thankful though, that I stuttered out that I loved him that night. Last week was the last time I saw my Uncle. It was also the last time he told me he believed in me, that I was not a failure.