Uncle Rungy, My Favorite Uncle

I don’t remember the first time I met my Mom’s brother William. But every memory of him that I hold is loving and special.

My earliest memories, probably when I was about four or five years old, are of me trying to figure out what I was supposed to call him.

My Mom called him William, which was obviously his given name. But my Illinois cousins — and there are many of them — all called him Rungy or Uncle Billy.

I never knew why they called him Rungy and for some reason was too afraid to ask. And since it had been drilled into me that kids don’t call adults by their first name I never dialed up the courage to just call him William or Billy, either.

I always referred to him as Uncle William, and I can remember it feeling so formal to me as I vied for attention during visits with all the cousins who called him Rungy or Uncle Billy and, to me at the time, seemed so much closer to him than me.

My family lived in Northern Wisconsin, about 400 miles north of where myself, my older sisters, my parents and their siblings were born.

And the distance meant I never got to spend as much time with William, or Billy, or Rungy as I wanted.

But the time I did get to spend with him still holds a special place in my heart and is something I think about regularly.

Unlike my parents and my Mom’s other siblings, Uncle William didn’t have kids of his own. And for a kid talking to William wasn’t like talking to a parent. It was more like talking to a funny, kind, wise and loving role model who listened to me like a friend or older brother might.

I remember William’s clothes being more like what I’d expect to see an academic wear, wool coats and sweaters, ties, flat caps, all of which were quite different than the flannel and denim and Carhart that was standard attire for the blue collar adult men in Northern Wisconsin.

Then there was the car. Which I think was a Fiat Spider from the 70s. A European, two-seater convertible that was a stark contrast to the pickup trucks and malaise-era American junkers that otherwise passed through my life at the time.

I’ll also never forget how Uncle William lived the service and generosity most people only talk about.

A Vietnam vet, he returned to the U.S. and became a lifeline for people who still lived with the fallout from the conflict.

For most of my childhood Uncle William opened his home to refugees fleeing Southeast Asia. Often when he joined family gatherings he would be with one or more refugees from Vietnam or Laos whom he was supporting as they gained a foothold to support themselves in the community. While the language barrier usually prevented us from talking it didn’t stop us from enjoying many, spirited, cross-cultural games of basement ping-pong or driveway basketball.

Finally, there’s the wit.

As a kid who generally learned from the world around me that “strong, silent type” was the way to be a man, William’s clever jokes, book talk and wit fascinated me.

Although I can’t remember much about the specifics of his observations, I can remember the vibe was always kind, smart and often funny.

There’s one quip I recall him saying that I still think about, and use, today. It happened during an overnight sightseeing trip to St. Louis, along with my younger brother, Nate. We were kids so the trip was on William’s dime, of course.

I think we were browsing the tourism maps and local attraction pamphlets in the hotel lobby and I must have asked if it was ok to take some.

I still remember him saying, “If it’s free, take it.”

There’s not much more to the story, other than that it still pops into my mind whenever I’m walking past samples at Costco or re-upping my workplace benefits or going online to verify what’s included with a hotel room.

Anyway … time passed and all the kids grew up and moved far away. We kept in touch sporadically, usually when he’d pop up online to say something nice about photos I’d post.

Still, I’d think about him much more frequently than we would actually talk, mainly thinking about how grateful I am to have had his influence in my life.

But it took me too long to tell him. That’s because despite all the warm memories, I was feeling guilty about a snide remark about his apartment I’d once made when I was trying and failing to be funny.

Unsurprisingly, when I finally mentioned it all these decades later he responded with grace and kindness and a joke about how guilt must have been part of the curriculum at my Catholic school just like it was for him.

Besides apologizing for an unkind remark, I also dialed up the courage to ask why the others called him Rungy.

He said it was the result of a mispronunciation by my oldest cousin when he was learning to talk and it just stuck.

Mystery solved.

We also talked (via email) about photography he enjoyed and my time on the West Coast. He said San Francisco is his second favorite city after Edinburgh, in large part due to the kindness he experienced from people there.

I also liked to send links to YouTube videos from Peoria, Ill., and he’d update me on how that community is adapting to post industrial life.

William is currently in the hospital and my cousin tells us it’s a struggle right now. He can’t talk but he can read texts or hear texts and look at photos.

I’ve never been to Scotland so I don’t have any pictures of Edinburgh to post here.

But I do have plenty of shots from San Francisco I think he’ll enjoy.

Don’t worry, Rungy, the photos are free. Take them.