The first memories I have of my uncle cling together like a pile of dirty laundry. They’re of denim vests, and guys with long hair and Marlboro cigarettes. They’re of cheap wooden patio sets on cool summer nights next to a thin garden crammed between two mobile homes.

My Uncle Rudy, teen-aged

This is my grandparent’s house in the late 80's. She was Nanny and he is Pop-pop. I don’t know whether it was the escape from home, or the freedom of the trailer park, but I developed a fast, hard love for sleeping over at Nanny’s house.

Read the rest on