Uncle Bob in Montana

My dad’s brother, Uncle Bob, was married to Aunt May; and she had a brother, also named Bob.  In order not to confuse the two, I referred to May’s brother as my “Uncle Bob in Montana,” where he made his home.

He earned a PhD in history and sent his resume to colleges and universities all over the country.  He had several offers, but the most intriguing one came from the University of Montana in Missoula.  He had never been to Montana and was profoundly curious about the school and the town.  He accepted the offer and signed a teaching contract, just because he wanted to see what it was like.  As it turned out, he saw what it was like for the rest of his life.

He gave the lectures and assigned the term papers and graded the exams.  As he moved up the tenure track, they made him department chair and gave him other administrative jobs.  Bob became a fixture at the university, and he was known to drink socially.

A dedicated historian, he zealously conducted his own research, and alone, or in collaboration, submitted treatises to history publications.  Esoteric stuff.  It fulfilled the publishing demands of his employer but did not fulfill his pocketbook.

Then one day he was sharing a highball with a colleague who was also a writer of historical novels.  She suggested a joint project about the real “baddies” throughout history.  The result was a tongue-in-cheek tome of anecdotal accounts of the bullies, tyrants, and murderers from Caligula to Torquemada to Stalin, and many others.    

They did not burden themselves with footnotes and they dedicated the book to themselves.  The acknowledgements included about 175 people and several cats.  When their publisher changed the title of the book from “The Villains of History” to “The Bedside Book of Bastards,” they celebrated with another highball and chuckled on the way to the bank.

Bob had a great sense of humor and he loved the limelight.  In the classroom or the lecture hall or the cocktail party, he was on stage.  Learned, intelligent, and witty; he was a great storyteller.  And a bachelor.

He got married once, but it didn’t take.  They did not want to bend their lives.  He and his ex-wife eventually became good friends again, taught on the same faculty, and even dated occasionally.  Dating, Yes!  Marriage, No! 

His bachelor pad sat on the edge of town, a restored Victorian masterpiece on the National Registry of Historic Homes.  The basement was a beautifully decorated example of masculine academe — with booklined shelves, historical photos elegantly framed, soft lighting, lots of leather, lots of wood.

In the huge back yard was his rose garden, also a masterpiece.  Oh, how he fussed over his roses.  It started as a manicured lawn, bordered by half-a-dozen flower basins and beds around the edge, each one with two or three rose bushes.  Over the years the number of basins grew, and the lawn shrank, until there were about forty rose beds separated by narrow and winding paths of grass.  The number of bushes eventually grew to more than a hundred.  Not only was he meticulous about the care and feeding of these beauties, he became a total rose geek who scientifically practiced the art of grafting, eventually developing a couple of new varieties.

Each plant had three names.  Set in the ground by each one was a stake with a plaque like you find in the arboretum or on an office door.  Etched on each plaque was the (1) common name, like “American Beauty” or “Judy Garland” or “Opening Night,” the (2) scientific or botanical name, and the (3) personal name.  The personal name for each rose bush was a friend or family member, or someone who had given Bob a plant as a gift.  For example, when my mom gave him a new plant, the “Yellow Rose of Texas” was also known as “Audrey.”   

The garden was Bob’s real home.  He built his own gardening cart with a place for potting soil, the rose feed, a container for clippings and a rack of tools.  There was a big umbrella to protect him from the summer sun and a built-in bench for taking a break.  The cart was also equipped with an ice bucket and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label.  He pushed the cart around the garden, going from plant to plant – sipping, clipping, and chatting.

Good morning, Audrey, you’re looking a little wilted today. Let me pull off these droopy petals and brown leaves.

Hi Janice.  That was a real beauty I picked from you yesterday.  Could be a prize winner.

Toby, my lad, your buds are very promising. 

May, my dear, I need to cut back this old cane.  Don’t worry, it will only hurt a little and it will be good for you. 

I found my uncle to be … eccentric.  It was a mystery to me that someone could spend countless hours in a pursuit that included frequent stops to talk to a flower.  He explained it to me.  He took a swig and put his arm around my shoulder.  He told me to close my eyes and to take several deep breaths through my nose.  It was late spring and the aroma of tens of thousands of rose petals was intoxicating.

Then he told me to open my eyes and look across the garden to the hillside across the road.  I was looking at a riot of color near me and an expanse of purple lupine beyond the fence, stretching halfway to Canada.  He was surrounded daily with unimaginable beauty and was also surrounded with students and colleagues who loved him and whom he loved in return.  He shared his philosophy of life.

If you want to be happy for an hour, get high on scotch. 

If you want to be happy for a weekend, get married.

But if you want to be happy all your life, get yourself a rose garden.

It may not be your way of thinking, but it was part and parcel of the life of an interesting man of extraordinary talent and good will.  He loved the life he had chosen.   

Bob was taken way too early, dead at fifty-five.  Not able to travel to Montana for the funeral, I later caught up with Aunt May for some commiseration.  The wake had taken place in the rose garden.  The mourners spent time along the paths appreciating Bob’s artistry, and many of them were pleased to find their names engraved there. 

Bob was continually adding new varieties, and May discovered the recent addition of a gorgeous tea rose with petals of peach and apricot hue.  The plaque had the botanical name, the common name, “Brass Band,” and the personal name – Timothy.  I will never forget my Uncle Bob in Montana.  What a blessing to know that he did not forget me.