Hello There, Uncle Freeze

I haven’t listened to voicemails in decades.

It’s an old trauma response.

When my voicemail filled up, I felt relief… no new messages until the old ones expired.

Months. Maybe a year of peace.

Then texting arrived and quietly made voicemail unnecessary. Most people stopped leaving messages. In a way, the world adjusted around my trauma.

Then I met Uncle Freeze.

And somehow, I began accumulating voicemails, many from him… all unheard. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did what most people did: I’d see the missed call, and I’d call back — if I felt like it.

With Unc, I always felt like it.

He’d answer, “Hello there. Did you get my message? I left you a voicemail.”

I’d politely say no, then ask how he was, and whether he needed anything: food, groceries, a visit.

At first, it was always “No, thank you.”

Then it snowed. And we showed up with shovels and salt. He would watch us from his front door and keep thanking us for saving his bum shoulder — an old football injury.

We met through work. He was from Pittsburgh, like our Dad — Steelers fans connecting in the wild. As soon as we learned he’d never owned a Terrible Towel, we gifted him ours.

He was thrilled. A wrong was righted.

One visit, we folded origami cranes while he grilled, Motown playing in the background. He requested a smooth jazz song he’d heard on the radio — “Thousand Cranes” by Hiroshima. We quietly decided we’d fold a thousand cranes for his next birthday.

I wrote something to help him once, and he hung it on his wall alongside photos and all of his awards.

When we published our blog post Dad Jokes and Zebra Toenails: A Father’s Day Tribute, he left a comment: “A Great Story about a Man, similar to my Dad. When Men were Men, and took care of their Family, First, Last, and Always.”

We were cut from the same cloth — stubborn, loyal, tender, missing our dads.

His father was a steelworker and a deacon, and Unc carried those values straight into his life: labor, veterans, civil rights, church.

In the 1960s, he entered the U.S. Naval Academy, when being “one of the few” meant carrying the weight of the many. He paid a price for that courage.

Two honor chairs at the U.S. Naval Academy bear his name — quiet proof that his presence there mattered, even when the institution didn’t make it easy.

He expressed his gratitude in small ways — gifts, cards. Once, he slipped me a $20 with a note: “For gas money.”

Near the end, he slept most of the time. He’d wake up, look over at us, and whisper, “Hello there.”

He wanted to put his feet on the ground. He said he’d made his peace, and that was all he needed to say.

And then he was gone.

We longed for more time, but were grateful he was at ease.

My sister offered to clear my voicemails for me. This time, I may listen with her.

Rest, Unc.

In remembrance,

His Nieces and Nephew