Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

When I was 11, my uncle came to visit me during one of my many prolonged stays in the hospital. I had a reasonably significant surgical procedure and was confined to a wheelchair, so he sat in my room and regaled me with tales of life on the outside. He was my mother’s younger brother. His nickname was “Tuff,” though his real name was Gary – one of four in my immediate family. Since our families were close, nicknames were helpful, as you might imagine.

At one point during his visit, Uncle Tuff decided I’d been cooped up for too long and needed to escape for a bit. I wasn’t tethered to any wires or hoses at that point, so we made good our getaway. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I was supposed to leave the floor, and we were trying to be stealthy. I think he had given the nurses the heads-up and cleared it first, but I played along.

After a quick elevator ride, we arrived at a vending area, complete with snack tables and a microwave. He parked me at a table and dug into his pocket for change. A moment later, a Mr. Goodbar candy bar and a bottle of Royal Crown cola appeared in front of me.

In case you’re unfamiliar, the Mr. Goodbar is made by Hershey and is little more than your basic chocolate bar, but with peanuts. It’s not fancy, but after a week of hospital food, it was like someone had bestowed on me a feast fit for kings. For the next half hour, we knocked back our RCs and chocolate, and he did his best to take my mind off where I was – he was good at that.

Back in my room, he’d left me with an extra chocolate bar – plain Hershey’s this time – and gave the nurse another bottle of RC to keep cold for me. It was a good day, all things considered.

We lost my Uncle Tuff to lung cancer in 2005. Ironically, another memory associated with that day at the hospital was that he wasn’t allowed to smoke. It was one of the few times I remember seeing him without a smoldering Salem. He was around my life a great deal, and I miss him every day, especially when I sit at a piano – he taught me to play.

But of all the times we had later, playing music with our family band or just sitting around the kitchen table at the farm where I grew up listening to him and my dad tell stories, that one moment at the hospital will always stand out. That was when a little boy, uncertain of his future, forgot for a moment how badly he was feeling, all thanks to his uncle and a candy bar.

I guess the point of all this is that, as children, it’s incredible how things intertwine to create influential memories into adulthood. Then, when we’re grown, we often reflect on those moments, maybe to draw inspiration or clarity. Many events in our formative years leave an indelible imprint on our psyche to help shape our beliefs, behaviors, and aspirations.

Understanding the profound influence of these early experiences offers invaluable insights into how we relate to people and the world as adults. But I wouldn’t dig too deeply. As Sigmund Freud is fabled to have said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” In this case, a chocolate bar and a bottle of soda are just a chocolate bar and a bottle of soda.

These moments, whether joyous or traumatic, become the defining chapters of our personal narratives. I don’t really know what long-term effect that single event had on my overall growth as an adult. I know it wasn’t the chocolate that made it special, but rather my uncle’s relationship with me. But, on the rare occasions that I might indulge in a Mr. Goodbar, I still smile and remember.

So, when life’s daily challenges become too much, maybe it would help to think back to one of those moments when a simple kindness, and perhaps a chocolate bar, could bring a smile to your face.