Uncle Frank

A silver Grand Prix pulls into the driveway just a little before 5:30, always early. After a number of long, strong strides accompanied by a cheerfully whistled tune, the doorbell rings. He stays in the entry way while she grabs her purse, as the landmines of cat fur farther inside would trigger his allergies. He whistles back to the car and opens her door for her with a smile.

The car is clean, feels almost new despite the fact he bought it used a number of years ago. The cup holder in the center console is full of those generic hard candies no one wants on Halloween--butterscotch, strawberry, rootbeer. There is a stack of undistributed fliers in the back promoting a local art show for one of the galleries he's recently signed on with. He starts the car and the radio comes to life with lyric-less jazz, just a little scratchy because the reception isn't the best it could be.

Frank avoids the highway, though it would cut the driving time by more than half. He opts instead for the scenic route on Blossom Hill Road through the Los Gatos hills. Jazz fights with static as the hills rise on either side, but the music eventually wins with renewed volume. He's always been that way, unhurried, easy-going.

He was there when I was born, a co-worker and close friend of my mother. I've grown up around "uncle" Frank, the eternal bachelor. He's always had silver hair and that slightly lazy blue eye. I remember one night the family was out to dinner with him at a very nice steakhouse in downtown Los Gatos and his exciting news of the evening was that he had finally gotten himself a cell phone. It was a simple pay-as-you-go type thing, but it was all the technology he was willing to handle.

After he retired, he started painting as something to pass the time. He mixed his own pigments and produced work after work of stunning surrealism. His first sale was "Hope," a dusty brown tree on a cream landscape with a black sun rising behind it and a single green sliver of a leaf on its bare branches. It hangs on the wall of my mother's security office at work.

He's entertained the notion of moving to Oregon, Washington and Alaska in the past few years. He almost made it, but decide to remain in the area at the last moment. As preparation for the move, he wanted to give unsold paintings to friends; such was how my family ended up with two more of his works; one my parents chose (right) and the other one I'd been eying for years, "Viewpoint," which features a white orb emanating graduated blue light in a black sky. A tan cave lit from within and an impressive cliff reaching toward the orb rises from the dusty brown rocks of the landscape below.

It seems it doesn't matter what viewpoint an individual has, he's one of those people with a personality everyone can love. A people-person to the end.

We end up at the California Cafe in the rich part of Los Gatos (the really rich part, not just the rich part) and enjoy steak Diane with asparagus and mashed potatoes while overlooking the Los Gatos Creek Trail he walks more than once a week. Afterward, we wander the downtown streets, poking through shops. He whistles in the lulls in conversation, tickles the fancy of those lucky enough to pass us.