A nephew’s tribute
My Uncle Darrell was always cheering me on about words. Beginning when I was a baby, he would walk me around teaching me how to pronounce terms like “light.” All my life, he was quick to compliment and comment on things I wrote.
It’s somewhat fitting that the final curtain would come down on his long life right before Academy Awards weekend. If there were an Oscar for lifetime achievement in the supportive role of an uncle, Darrell would’ve earned it.
His performance spanned 87 years on this Earth, and he nailed it. He was a truth greater than fiction. My dad remarked last Friday that it was his first day ever without a big brother; it was also my first day ever without an Uncle Darrell. Or “Uncle Jim,” as we alternatively called him.
An all-sports fan, Razorback radical and accomplished golfer, he perpetually had a little “coach” in him, augmented with a sincere spirit of back-slapping, rooting-for-ya rah-rah. Darrell not only wanted you to do well, he was grin-splitting happy when you did.
His words to me, to my brother and sister, to my kids, to most all who knew him, always sounded like applause. If phrases had faces, “Way to go!” would bear Darrell’s countenance.
His devotion to family was the stuff of storybook legend. He worked in the same office—literally within arm’s reach—as my father for more than 50 years. They were lifelong golfing chums. Until my Granny died a few years back, they lunched daily at her house, along with whichever other assorted Kelley kin could attend. As brothers go, life couldn’t have woven them together much more tightly.
His leading roles were loving husband of 62 years to his wife, wonderful Dad to my three cousins, and precious PaPa to their children.
There’s big-hearted and kind-hearted; Darrell’s cardiac DNA combined both, which went well with his gift of good-humor gab. Oh, the stories he could tell, and did. From his days in the Army. His years delivering the mail. And his decades of living, working and golfing side-by-side with my Dad.
The Kelley Bros. were staples at northeast Arkansas area tournaments back in the day. With a couple of other local golf buddies, their team won back-to-back national titles as Arkansas state champions at the Fellowship of Christian Athletes national tournament in 2015 and 2016.
My family is full of opinionated folks (an easy guess), but Darrell knew better than most how to put the important “com-” prefix in front of the “passion” that lively discourse often evoked. He also knew how to put the complete word into action. There’s no way now of knowing how many people Darrell quietly, secretly helped out.
I remember one day years ago when a random envelope arrived in the mail with my name and address scribbled on it. Inside was a check with an encouraging note from Darrell.
He thought a little cash might come in handy just now, he wrote. “No hurry on payback,” he added. I never needed the shirt off his back, but if that time had ever come, he would have gone bare-chested for me in a heartbeat.
I’m certain I wasn’t the only beneficiary of Darrell’s helping spirit in that way. He took the whole number to his grave, but others similarly blessed know who they are.
The last time I saw Uncle Darrell was at the grocery store. I noticed how thin he’d gotten, but his smile was as full and fit as ever. Darrell was always happy to see you—which made me happier, too.
Naturally, he dismissed discussing his own health issues. He wanted to know how my kids were, asking about their work and families. We didn’t speak long, and when we parted he looked at me with that ageless and timeless twinkle in his eye and said, “It’s great to see you, Big D!”
He was from a time when endearing nicknames were commonplace, and he freely and fondly christened those he cared about. Among his other sobriquets were Zeeny, Punkydoodles, Blondie Top, Snerd, Moleman, Megster, Big J, PK, Little Snickelfritz, Tootie, Franz and Karinski.
Sometimes, in counting my blessings, I feel so fortunate and full-Irish-lucky that additional prayers and pleas to God seem like asking for more than my share.
But that’s where grace, hope and love supersede our finite worldly understanding. There’s always room for more of each. Darrell’s hours, days and weeks were never any longer than anybody else’s. He just somehow squeezed more good stuff in.
“The world needs more people like Uncle Jimbo,” my sister put in our family group text, and she’s right. We all need more Uncle Darrells in our lives. But more than that, we all need to try and become an Uncle Darrell in the lives of others.
That’s the power of real legacy: it strengthens our souls to be more like someone good, in order to do more good. That’s the true treasure that gets passed down—the bequeathed endowment deposited deep into the vault of our hearts.
It’s my inheritance from my dear Uncle Darrell, and I’m richer for it.