Uncle Bud Rules

On our family tree workaholics are everywhere. Some of us have it worse than others. Some grow out of it or sometimes (by default) we grow into it like a version of adult asthma; but we all have it to some degree on mom's side of the family. And it's as hard to shake as a cold sore you contracted at a Motley Crue concert. In the last sentence I purposefully used the word "contracted" instead of caught. Contraction is something you get by a lack of due diligence on your own part. Catching it, however, can be likened to getting the common cold or a case of the flu. But this would indicate that we have a choice in the matter. Do we? That is the question of the day which we will explore together.

It's true that being tied to our work like low-hanging fruit from the tree of life is compulsory in this family. Being faced with old scratch and an apple we are forbidden to eat however, pales in comparison to being overworked. The only thing we can do once we realize the problem is figure out how to manage it the best we can. It's not treatable with rehab like an addition to black tar heroin because it's not a chemical. It's a sickness we are born into when our last name is East/Welch. And just like alcoholism it can tear your family apart if you let it. Just ask yourself this question: "have you ever seen a head stone that read, I wish I'd worked more." What's the point of spending all of your time making money you'll never take the time off to spend? That's a bit like a dog that chases its own tail, a task that is essentially never done and full to the brim with absurdity.

I am certain that my uncle Bud suffers from said disease worse than any of us. I remember granny telling me (and I quote) "I thought I was going to have to take a whip to that boy if he didn't take enough time off work to marry Corrine." But he did thank goodness, and as they say, the rest is history. But it should be pointed out that granny also said (and I quote again) "Liberace never got married because he was "always on the road." Yea grandma, THAT'S why. Maybe by that point my sweet aunt knew what she was getting into, maybe she didn't even care. Either way I respected her for her intestinal fortitude. Come on, any man who wouldn't take an hour off work to hit the local ER for a few stitches after hitting an artery but would rather self-doctor it with a bit of Super Glue IS a workaholic. To own it we must first admit it... or not. While getting real is sometimes necessary denial is more fun.

However, it should be pointed out in seriousness and in jest that even though the man loved to work he also understood how to seize a moment he might never get back. I remember one bone chilling snowy day in February in Wichita when we both figured there was no real hurry to get to the job site because honestly, we would likely be the only ones there. That happens to a lot to East men. We decided instead to engage each other over coffee, conversation, and a pan of grandma's award-winning cinnamon rolls. Once our side of insulin had fully been digested, I remember him phoning his secretary, telling her that he wouldn't be on that day because he was engaged in a battle of wits with his nephew. Picture if you will a red neck version of chess played without the board. Neither of us won that battle, and neither of us wanted to because frankly there wouldn't be anything left to cuss and discuss and nobody wants that. Have I mentioned that the gift of gab also runs deep on our family tree as well?

I have stopped in more than once to visit with the man since he has started residing in a rest home. He is always glad to see me, and me him. I have often taken the time to ponder just what it must feel like to go from doing EVERYTHING to doing NOTHING. He is a man who was essentially never being told no about anything until now. What must it feel like to be on top of the world one day (absolutely crushing life) to having your hand slapped because you sprinkled too much salt on your scrambled eggs. I will say that to the home's credit they have allowed him to have a fridge full of beer. Because, let's be honest, what else does he really have to look forward to? Let the man throw a weekend keg party, I'm pretty sure he has earned it.

Last time I was up to see him he offered me a Coors Lite, and I considered saying yes, but sadly it was only 10AM and I figured that would be pushing the outer limits set by the Southern Baptist Convention. The only other rules they have is you can say anything you want about anyone (including Jim Baker) if you follow up the comment with the phrase "bless his heart." Come on, cut the guy some slack, he was just trying to build a water slide for Jesus. To this very day I never have figured out if that is scriptural. While uncle Bud wouldn't be on board with the idea, he would certainly like the premise; after all it WAS work.