THE LAST UNCLE: A EULOGY

"The little Kansas farm with the creek / beside the corn rows and a pasture hill / above the red barn was for me / both womb and cradle." So begins a poem of mine titled "August Night" that pays homage to the Kansas farm home where I was born and raised. It was the same setting of towering oaks, wind-swept grass and rocky hills that my father's younger brother, my uncle Jean Scheel, knew also in his boyhood. Those rural roots ran deep and we shared that common heritage. The love and respect for nature, bred into Jean as a boy, would hold captive his heart throughout his lifetime.

Jean was the youngest of the three brothers, the apple of his mother's eye, named for his mother's sister Jean. The spelling of the name at times created some interesting dilemmas--having his hall locker in high school located in the girls' area, being initially assigned to a WAC detachment in the Army.

In 1946 he accepted a position with the extension service in Oregon and departed the Kansas area for good, enthusiastically writing a short time later to my father that he and his wife, Ada, had once and for all "found God's country." He never altered that opinion.

Those occasions when he returned for visits were always special ones for me as a young boy growing up. He never failed to enter our door bearing a gift with my name, invariably something unique and challenging like the construction set none of us could figure out how to assemble. The most memorable by far, however, was the huge box containing his military uniforms and paraphernalia, pure joy to a youth whose imagination at that point overflowed with soldiers and soldiering. Later on, after I'd learned--much to my mother's dismay--the game of poker at 4-H camp, he indulged me by playing some penny ante and giving me a few lessons. We broke even on the pennies.

During the onset of my adolescence, my parents and I vacationed once in the Northwest and stayed at Jean and Ada's home. I remember how scenic the area seemed and how fitting Ada's devotion to flowers. And I'll never forget Jean's pronouncement upon greeting us and scrutinizing my face: "Well, well, young man, it's about time you commenced shaving." I wasn't sure whether it was meant as a reprimand or a compliment, but I couldn't help but feel a certain pride.

Some years later after attending a conference back east, Jean interrupted his return, rented a car and picked me up where I was attending college at Kansas University. The Vietnam war was raging then and our views about it, as well as about many philosophic subjects I'd been studying, differed a good bit. We debated all the way to the farm--he with his trademark deliberate speech and precise word choice, I spouting textbook quotes--and into my mother's kitchen where she promptly put a halt to the exchange. He must have thought me the height of youthful arrogance, which I probably was. But he was forbearing and tolerant nonetheless.

There were subsequent visits after I'd served overseas with the American Red Cross and returned to Emporia. Coincidentally, immediately following his retirement, Jean and I began working on novels at the same time. And publishing poetry. Now and again we'd mail each other tear sheets of our publications, inviting comments or suggestions. And it was then, for me as an adult, I came to truly appreciate the depth of kinship I held with this man. We both loved language and the written word and cherished their beauty and power.

After my mother's and Ada's deaths and Jean's marriage to Bea, Jean brought Bea to see the home of his youth. She impressed me as a sophisticated lady through and through, yet upon observing some grime around the kitchen sink and counter, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work scrubbing and scouring while my father and Jean reminisced. By the time they departed, the whole sink area was spotless.

That evening at their motel as Bea related to me about the death in childhood of a sibling, she couldn't hold back the tears. I watched how gently Jean put his arm around her and comforted her, and I saw a tender loving side of him I'd never witnessed before. My respect and admiration only grew.

After my father's death and the sale of the farm, Jean and his third wife, Margaret, took a trip to see relatives and swung by Kansas City. What a day we spent, taking a trolley tour of Kansas City, driving out to Lake Gardner, ending up with a steak dinner at the Hereford House. While Margaret and Dee chatted enthusiastically about gardening, Jean and I had the opportunity to talk at some length about our writing projects. Jean was, I began to see, cut in the mold of a visionary and futurist. His interest lay in how might humanity become elevated. I, on the other hand, was more the realist, asking questions of what is and why. What an intellectually stimulating time we had.

And so with Jean's passing ends a family era. Jean was a man of accomplishment and vision, a man who could bring dreams to fruition. A man who loved nature, good literature, friendship and those dear people closest to him. He was a man to not only admire but to emulate. A man who learned from living and in learning discovered the secret of a good life. I, being a man of faith, believe Jean is now once again with family on a timeless plane of togetherness. I can visualize him embraced by loved ones who awaited him with open arms, as I hope one day, when my time arrives, and the last Scheel leaves this tumultuous earth, I will find him with the others waiting for me, arms open to welcome me home.