Farewell, for now, my beloved Uncle Gene.

I always think of you working in your garage, the smell of hot sawed wood, country western AM radio blaring away, while bacon was frying in Aunt Jeannie's iron skillet. 

You even looked a bit like Johnny Cash, and you always smiled when I told you that. I hope the ghost of Mr. Cash enjoys the compliment paid, not to my uncle, but to him.

Down in your basement, (in the house you built while working as a lineman at CILCO, going out in the most miserable weather, ice and lightning, sleet and hail, tornado and rain, while most people, no matter what other problems they may have had, at least were warm and snug in their beds with their loved one or dreams)...
...there was a room devoted to fishing supplies, lead sinkers I used to carry as a weapon against any car zooming past me, when I walked down a dangerous highway to get to Oak Grove Mennonite church, the lures and thousands of things I was never to understand.

In one corner was your wife, my aunt Jeannie's beauty parlor, with those big scary astronaut helmet hair dryers. She simultaneously worked at jobs outside the home, and sold Avon, then improved her skills, and spent most of her adult working years as a nurse.

He loved to go to Minnesota fishing. He seemed like a walking embodiment of The Land of Sky Blue Waters and all the bright, hopeful things of summer. 

Rugged, powerful, funny, hospitable, thoughtful, spiritual -- he loved life and church, country and family, and by God, getting things done.

Uncle Gene and Aunt Jeannie thus eternally signified for me the utmost in perseverance, industriousness, learning, and enjoying the great outdoors. 

I remember spending the night with my cousin in a camper in the backyard, thinking that was the ultimate way to live, in a small and simple traveling hut, that was barely separated from nature, and was cool as a tree fort (of which I built quite a few).

In the opposite corner of the basement, under the steps, was a big jukebox, full of country western 45 rpm vinyl singles, no Beatles or Dylan as I recall, but that may have changed later. 

He was an avid collector of singles and albums.

He worked hard and seemed to be constantly doing difficult things, from landscaping chores and woodworking projects, to beating off a rabid raccoon with a walking cane.

One of the last conversations we had, we were talking about jobs, and in referring to slackers and moochers, he remarked, "A man has to put food on his table." 

Funny how these earthy summings up of duty and dignity can ring louder in your heart than all the Joel Osteen and Tony Robbins shamanism combined.

Uncle Gene was last of the top level male elders. 

Now I, along with my brothers and cousins, am suddenly elevated to that position. I cherish the top level female elders, my aunt Jeannie and aunt Nellie.

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OBITUARY

Harold Eugene "Gene" Rogers

August 10, 1929 – November 12, 2014

Remmert Funeral Home

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