Originally published November 9, 2000
by Adam Zurn

Different people show they care in different ways. Some people express it verbally, while others show it through physical expression. Then there are those that do it in their own special way unique unto themselves.

Whatever way it's expressed, the only true measure of that expression is when a person does it because they want to not because they feel the need to.

As I've mentioned in previous columns, every August my entire extended family goes camping deep in the heart of the Adirondack mountains. It's a sort of family reunion stretched out over the entire month.

In keeping with all families, certain members have a special quality or trait that makes that person particularly memorable. My family is no exception, and in this case, it would have been my Uncle Ray.

Thinking back now years later, I'm not sure what the relationship really was, especially being a step child, but I still called him Uncle Ray, mainly because everyone else did. Uncle Ray was a happy funny man, and he loved his coffee. He had the ability of making those around him feel at ease and content. He was a good man.

Uncle Ray and Aunt Dot, his wife, when in the Adirondacks camped in this cozy little motor home called the "Honey." Everyone in the family (and sometimes even the neighboring camp sites) would visit for that fresh cup of coffee he brewed each and every morning. They all loved going not just for the coffee but for the great fellowship he offered.

Being rather young, my parents didn't like the idea of me in their motor home. It was a small trailer, and I was young and often dirty from playing on the ground. They simply didn't want me to wreck anything.

Uncle Ray never settled for that. If he saw me sitting outside the camper or anywhere in the campsite, he immediately motioned me in and did not stop insisting until I agreed to enter. There's a lot to be said for Southern hospitality.

Well, it was another day in the Adirondacks, early afternoon and the sun was shining brightly. The campsite appeared empty with everyone off doing whatever it is they do on a nice day.

My stepfather had sent me to my grandmother's site that she was sharing with Uncle Ray to get a rather large bag of dog food. The bag had already been opened and partially used for my grandmother's dog.

Nevertheless, the bag was large and still heavy, and I wasn't all that big. I didn't make it very far before I dropped the bag and spilled its contents all over the ground. I was really upset, and I was sure my stepfather would be furious! I attempted to scoop up as much of the spilled dog food as I could and put it back in the bag. However, there was so much of it, and it was so small that the task was impossible to clean up by hand.

I had gotten a large portion back into the bag but the ground was still littered. I could only imagine the trouble I'd be in. Then like the deus ex machine from a Greek play, my Uncle Ray appeared with rake in hand. He picked the bag up, put it in my arms and said, "Don't worry about it, son." He called everyone "son." I left not sure at the moment what he was going to do.

As I looked back, it all became clear. He was raking the dog food into a pile next to a semi-large stone. Once he had it all cleaned up, he some how muscled that stone over the dog food covering up any existence of the accident. He then went the extra mile to rake the entire site so no one would ever know what happened and no one ever did-until now.

My Uncle Ray never spoke of it or hung it over my head as some people do when they do you a big favor. That was just the type of man he was. The kind you want to be friends with and glad to call "Uncle."