About ol' uncle Ollie
by Paul Willax
I never had a real Uncle Ollie. I wish I did. There’ve been many times I would have liked reach out to him personally for more of the sage counsel his spirit has provided in my BrainFood publications.
I was blessed with uncles Bill, Arthur, Joe, Ernie, Eddie, and Louie. No Ollie.
Don’t get me wrong. All my uncles were great guys. All provided hearty laughs, gentle hands, and ready love and support.
I’m sure they were wise, too. But back in the days following the Depression, folks were busy and didn’t have a lot of time to share their hard-earned experience with kids who really didn’t look all that interested anyway. More likely, they were too modest to presume that young folks, with better book-learnin’ then they ever enjoyed, could benefit from anything they had to say.
Then, too, there was my “busy schedule.” I didn’t have the patience to listen to well worn stories bred of the good old days.
I didn’t turn to my mom or dad often enough for advice either. After all, – let’s get real – what do parents really know?
I obviously was not yet aware of the story related by Mark Twain about the father who knew absolutely nothing when his son was twenty, but was revered as a virtual oracle when the son turned thirty. According to Twain, the son was amazed at how much the father learned in just ten years. I guess I was never quite ready for parental input (until it was too late to get it).
However, as time passed and I engaged a challenging career, I began to realize that things would often go a lot better with a little seasoned advice. A few experience–bred tips could make a big positive difference in my adult life and career.
That’s when I began my collection.
I began to search my memory for things that were said by others during my lifetime. Admonitions made, exhortations voiced, quotes recited. I started to collect sayings and adages that I’d overheard, especially ones that had been passed down for generations but still packed a common-sense wallop.
I began turning a keen ear toward my contemporaries, too, always ready to catch a bit of wisdom they might unload, even if they weren’t really aware of its value.
I put my reading to a new use also. I started to underline the pithy points that might stand me well in the future.
I became an avid collector of sage saws and apt aphorisms that would aid me in my personal life and career. But, contrary to the habit of a traditional scrivener, I didn’t scrawl these worthy words in a journal, carefully ascribing them to their sources. I simply attributed them to the uncle I wished I had, and purposefully packed them into a reserved recess of my memory that wasn’t cluttered with all of the mundane information that convention pushed my way daily. I enlisted my new “ol’ Uncle Ollie” to the task of tending to this cranial carton and throwing a tip my way when he felt I needed it.
I found that such “personalized” gems of wisdom were particularly useful when my subconscious-self decided that I’d be better off with a little help. I purposely didn’t write them down since I concluded that, if formally memorialized, they’d lose the force that only a wizened, cantankerous old relative, like Uncle Ollie, could apply. I could very well ignore a journal. I certainly couldn’t ignore the raspy bellow of my ancestral figment.
I suppose that, someday, I’ll write all Ollie’s Brass Tacks Tips in a nice, leather-bound journal that will be ignored by my kids until they decide they really need a helping hand. Then, when they look for pearls of wisdom they’ll be handy – just in case – thanks to ol’ Uncle Ollie.
Indeed, all of us can have an ol’ Uncle Ollie. He’s there for the making... with tips for the taking.
I never had a real Uncle Ollie. I wish I did. There’ve been many times I would have liked reach out to him personally for more of the sage counsel his spirit has provided in my BrainFood publications.
I was blessed with uncles Bill, Arthur, Joe, Ernie, Eddie, and Louie. No Ollie.
Don’t get me wrong. All my uncles were great guys. All provided hearty laughs, gentle hands, and ready love and support.
I’m sure they were wise, too. But back in the days following the Depression, folks were busy and didn’t have a lot of time to share their hard-earned experience with kids who really didn’t look all that interested anyway. More likely, they were too modest to presume that young folks, with better book-learnin’ then they ever enjoyed, could benefit from anything they had to say.
Then, too, there was my “busy schedule.” I didn’t have the patience to listen to well worn stories bred of the good old days.
I didn’t turn to my mom or dad often enough for advice either. After all, – let’s get real – what do parents really know?
I obviously was not yet aware of the story related by Mark Twain about the father who knew absolutely nothing when his son was twenty, but was revered as a virtual oracle when the son turned thirty. According to Twain, the son was amazed at how much the father learned in just ten years. I guess I was never quite ready for parental input (until it was too late to get it).
However, as time passed and I engaged a challenging career, I began to realize that things would often go a lot better with a little seasoned advice. A few experience–bred tips could make a big positive difference in my adult life and career.
That’s when I began my collection.
I began to search my memory for things that were said by others during my lifetime. Admonitions made, exhortations voiced, quotes recited. I started to collect sayings and adages that I’d overheard, especially ones that had been passed down for generations but still packed a common-sense wallop.
I began turning a keen ear toward my contemporaries, too, always ready to catch a bit of wisdom they might unload, even if they weren’t really aware of its value.
I put my reading to a new use also. I started to underline the pithy points that might stand me well in the future.
I became an avid collector of sage saws and apt aphorisms that would aid me in my personal life and career. But, contrary to the habit of a traditional scrivener, I didn’t scrawl these worthy words in a journal, carefully ascribing them to their sources. I simply attributed them to the uncle I wished I had, and purposefully packed them into a reserved recess of my memory that wasn’t cluttered with all of the mundane information that convention pushed my way daily. I enlisted my new “ol’ Uncle Ollie” to the task of tending to this cranial carton and throwing a tip my way when he felt I needed it.
I found that such “personalized” gems of wisdom were particularly useful when my subconscious-self decided that I’d be better off with a little help. I purposely didn’t write them down since I concluded that, if formally memorialized, they’d lose the force that only a wizened, cantankerous old relative, like Uncle Ollie, could apply. I could very well ignore a journal. I certainly couldn’t ignore the raspy bellow of my ancestral figment.
I suppose that, someday, I’ll write all Ollie’s Brass Tacks Tips in a nice, leather-bound journal that will be ignored by my kids until they decide they really need a helping hand. Then, when they look for pearls of wisdom they’ll be handy – just in case – thanks to ol’ Uncle Ollie.
Indeed, all of us can have an ol’ Uncle Ollie. He’s there for the making... with tips for the taking.
