MY UNCLE, MY BUDDY DALE McGINNIS

            Dale was two years older than me, but we grew up pretty much as brothers, often in the same household. As kids we did almost everything, from backyard baseball to stealing Grandpa’s cigarettes, together. Our ways parted a bit in Junior High School, partly because my Mom placed me in a semi-private school, run by the local college, and partly because I got very much involved in sports and Dale less so. Nonetheless, over the years Dale and I grew to be very close buddies and were almost inseparable during our last years at Bellingham High School.

            Before he went to college Dale spent a couple of years in the military, so we were in the same grade at High School graduation Dale earned his bachelor’s degree in anthropology at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Wash. After college graduation Dale spent a couple of years teaching on the Crow Indian Reservation in Montana. He then his master’s degree in anthropology at the University of Montana and landed a job at a community college near Tacoma, Washington. He flourished as a college teacher, being so bright and friendly. He instituted several programs at his college and often took students on “digs” around the ancient historical Native American sites around the state.

            I got to visit one of Dale’s classes and he was so in touch with his students. They especially enjoyed his imitation of a Gibbon monkey scratching itself while calling out to his family in the trees above. We both had come so far from those early years as kids and erstwhile athletes. Dale had recently been elected as President of his school’s faculty and was obviously loved by his students and his colleagues alike. Of course, we spent many hours sharing our memories of “growing up” and all the escapades we had invented and all the close scrapes we had survived together.             

     Dale and his wife Marge had two wonderful children, Meghan and Tim, who always made him proud to be their father. He also co-authored a couple of books on anthropology with his undergraduate professor at Western Washington University. When I finally caught up with Dale after we both had been teaching for a number of years, he was with his students on a dig site on a typically wet day in the Washington woods. We were both dressed in Levis and boots, with blue rain jackets, and sporting similar white beards. Dale said: “When you’ve seen one professor you have seen ‘em all.”

            Near the end of his life Dale and Marge visited Mari and me on the Greek island of Crete where we were leading a Semester Abroad program. It was wonderful to spend some time together, especially since Dale was now struggling with a cancerous stomach. Dale had never been abroad and was ever so delighted to spend an evening with several Greek peasants in a small taverna, listening to them tell stories, even though he only understood a little of what they were saying. When we talked on the phone a few weeks later, Dale thanked us profusely for that wonderful evening with “real Greek peasant people.”

       About a month later Dale phoned and informed us that he had decided to stop fighting his cancer and wanted to say his “Good-Byes”. It was a sad, but triumphant conversation. We had lived so much of our lives together and we loved each other deeply. I reminded him of his remark: “When you’ve seen one professor you’ve seen ‘em all,” and he remembered that day clearly. Dale died a few of weeks later. He was the very best brother/uncle one could ever hope for.                 

A Peculiar Experience

     While my wife Mari shops at Trader Joe’s on Sundays, I sit outside of a local bagel place and watch the people. I even talk to some passers-by. Every now and then I fellow walks by looking for a handout. I generally carry a few bucks in plastic baggies just for this purpose. Last week a youngish looking man came bye, acting a bit embarrassed, looking around at various folks. Then he asked me for one of the baggies. He took it, looked it over without opening it, put it in his pocket, smiled and asked, “Do you have any more?”

            I was quite surprised by his question but answered by smiling back and handing him another baggie. He laughed and grinned widely, said “Thanks”, and walked on. I admit I was a bit stunned by his unusual response, but it did set me to thinking. I’ve been handing out these baggies for several years and never have I had someone respond in this way. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or a bit disappointed. I’ve been thinking about this incident for several days trying to scope the guy out.

            Most guys, and it’s almost always a guy, simply mutter “thanks” and keep looking down. Some look me right in the eye and with a smile say, “Thanks a lot, buddy”. It almost seemed as if this guy was laughing at me. Perhaps he was just messin’ with me to see what I would do or say. Perhaps he was puzzled by the plastic baggie or even was a bit afraid of it. He never even opened it up while he was looking it over. Just moved on down the sidewalk.

            I of course do not expect a special response from the recipients of these baggies. I used to work in a homeless shelter and know how hard it can be for such folks, especially in the winter. I know that two or three bucks isn’t going to make much difference to them in their situation, but I like to think that perhaps the contact with another person might mean a lot. Actually, occasionally I meet the same person more than once and that is always a special experience.

            I do not know what I am trying to say here. It was just a very peculiar experience and has had me thinking ever since. How does it feel to beg for money? Some guys are in wheelchairs and appear to be used to asking for money. I am a bit surprised that some do not start making meeting me a regular thing. We give money to other needy causes, but this contact with a real person is something I really look forward to. I’ll let you know if this guy ever shows up again. I hope he does. If you have any thoughts about this sort of thing, please let me know. Thanks for reading.