Uncle Bruce Heimark, January 2, 1926 – November 5, 2012
11.10.2012 
I cannot think of a week with greater emotional swings of high and low than this past week has been. A death in my family. Rebirth in our country.
My mother’s youngest brother, Bruce Heimark, died on the morning of November 5, just as his family was preparing to call in hospice care.
He was my funniest relative, and rather merciless in his humor, as Norwegian-American Vikings can be.
I remember at the age of 12, walking down our driveway in Paradise Valley, Arizona to get the mail. Maybe I’d just seen a Marilyn Monroe film--I was trying out a sideways hip swivel. I wasn’t aware that Uncle Bruce was behind me, but when I turned to go back to the house, he turned too, and did an expert imitation of my slinky moves. In a man as tall as he, it was hilarious. And mortifying. Not a word about it to me, just a demonstration.
Norwegians from Minnesota are great jokesters, but they also put great store in being genuine, that is, unaffected in behavior and speech. In one minute my uncle had cured me forever of any temptation to be stagey or phony.
(Genuine is such a high compliment coming from my Norwegian relatives that when I brought Richard home for the first time, my mother crooked her finger at me 15 minutes after we’d arrived to say sotto voce in the kitchen. “Don’t let him get away! He’s genuine,” in a tone that others might use about God. (I told her not to worry, he wasn't running.))
I remember going to lunch with Bruce when I was visiting family in Paradise Valley, Arizona, during the period that he and Lee lived there. We talked about the shock of the late ‘60s for my parents, when their three oldest children were busy sampling every new freedom that was in the air.
From his more conservative Minnesota perspective, Bruce said, “I don’t know why they were so surprised. They’d encouraged you kids to be free from the time you were small—in books, music, travel, political perspective, independent thinking—everything.”
I was startled by his perspective; it had never occurred to me that their encouragement of adventurous living was anything unusual, and at the same time, I knew what he said was true.
Bruce spoke at my father’s memorial eloquently, without notes. And afterwards, during my mother’s long grieving, he called her every week.
Then, several years ago, when Richard and I went to AWP, a conference for writers and teachers in Chicago, I remember the winter night of winds so strong we laughed uncontrollably as we were blown like leaves down the street. We were on our way to meet Bruce and Lee, cousin Kris and her husband, Jim, for dinner at The Chicago Firehouse, a yellow brick building that was once a firehouse, and still had the tin ceiling and brass poles.
Bruce had been through a health crisis not long before, and had nearly died. Through intensive care and intense love from his family he’d pulled through. His heart surgery and complications from a hospital-induced infection, meant a slow recovery that had coincided with his daughter Sue’s illness and death.
We had a rollicking good dinner conversation about family and books and our lives, as you always did with Bruce and his family.
That was the last time I saw Bruce. In spite of my mother’s claim that she was done with travel (Ja, sure, Betty, I imagine Bruce saying) she was glad that she'd flown to Chicago with my sister, Ann, then on to Mankato with Bruce and Lee, Kris and Jim, to celebrate my uncle Jack’s ninetieth birthday last January. Showing up, being there, that is everything.
I know that more memories of Bruce will surface in the weeks to come. I’ll remember the timbre of his voice. I’ll remember his sly trickster humor, and how he made everyone laugh.
Monday night, my aunt told me that when Bruce was in the hospital after a stroke last week, the nurse asked him a series of questions.
What was his middle name?
“Bruce Douglas,” he said. "And what's yours?"
"How old are you?"
"86. How old are you?"
“Who is the President?”
“O-BAMA!” he roared.
"He's a Republican," said my aunt.
“I gathered,” said the nurse.
When I spoke with Lee on the phone she said she imagined that he was already playing cribbage with his daughter, Sue, and she beat him.
I wonder if he heard the word “hospice” and said to himself, “No thanks, checking out!”
Or maybe it was the prospect of an Obama victory?
That victory was the high of the week—of the year—for Richard and me and most of our family and friends.
But love is larger than political affiliation, and may be the only force strong enough to solve the major problems of our country and the world.
When life draws to a close, our memories of that person seem to be etched in the heavens, and take on the radiance of stars. Bruce’s star is dancing and twinkling with laughter. The secret of his humor? Timing! Right to the very end.
Paris street art by JPM
Reader Comments (24)
Ah, Dearest Kaaren, how sweet an homage to an obviously wonderful uncle! I had two uncles, one my father didn't like much (his brother) because I think he was always trying to cadge money, and the other (my mother's brother) who I rather liked in the 60s, but who always got drunk at family gatherings and told really dirty jokes... May your uncle continue to chortle and be in good company wherever he is... he's left a legacy of good thoughts. And that's key, for those of us still walking around...
Since you said I have poems about everything, I can't help myself from sending this one... but I've often said, "Death is the bread and butter of poets," and I'm sure we all have, in such contemplations, piles of such poems. This one was from an inspiration of not where do WE go at death, but maybe where does death itself go... a preposterous metaphysic perhaps, but pass the bread and butter! (And yes, it really is about where we go after all...)
And God bless your dear uncle... He's sweetened my day with that wide Norwegian smile and your heartfelt remembrances... (pass the krumkakke!)
___________________
WHERE DEATH GOES
Where death goes for solace when no one’s looking
in a spray of yellow parrot feathers
in the gnashed teeth of foxes
Where death goes after the lights are turned out
in the mortuary and the stillness expands to the
walls and laps against the closed doors
Where death goes in the eyesockets and throats of
young soldiers with their hands and arms flung back
just as they fell
death in the crinkle and the crack
in the crease and the winking clock
in the space in the dark between things left
behind where no insect or dust mote dare go
Where death goes after it’s made its final declaration
its lone messenger withdraws to neutral ground
its many ministers and negotiators take late flights home
imponderable its appearance imponderable its
disappearance yet
some wear it bravely even brightly on their brows
while some seem fearfully to look in all the old familiar places
for a sign of its impending visit
while others wait impatiently at the bottom of the stairs
with expectant faces for it to come
Yet death goes
and takes us with it
and leaves a Polaroid on an upturned glass
full of sunset glow for those left behind to
ponder
And sings a soft song
as it sinks below the horizon
__________________________________________________
5/1/02 (from Where Death Goes, The Ecstatic Exchange, 2009)
Dear Daniel,
I love this poem. I think my uncle Bruce would be among the ones who "wear it bravely even brightly on their brows." I am so glad you sent these words of appreciation. Bruce is grinning.
I love the sounds in:
"death in the crinkle and the crack
in the crease and the winking clock"
And I'm asking a similar question lately about memory. Where do our memories go after death? Do they only exist in others' houses of memory? In images and books and things we leave behind? Or do they exist somewhere beyond in a great Book of Lives that records every moment of our lives? Having Celtic ancestors, I tend to think that all are probably true.
Cupcakes don't tempt me, but krumkakke might.
Here's to uncles we never forget!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
One of my first teenage friends was a boy named Pederson (is the final "o" the Norwegian tag? or should it be an "e"?), whose parents actually came from Norway, and at Xmas they made the most lavish krumkakke, cones filled with creamy stuff, that I'll never forget. I think they even had sprinkles! Let's see, that's about 60 years ago! Or are those cones something altogether different... I remember his mother calling them krumkakke... one of my first "foreign" words... whew!
Even Jean Genet (in Song of Love) thought that the soul kind of blends into the horizon, and the memory continues forever... or consciousness. As Muslim Sufis, we believe the spirit body is reconstituted in the Achira, or Next World, but I'm not sure if the "past" memory comes with, or a kind of future "memory" (imagine!) continues forward in a paradisiacal setting... you know, fountains of wine, rivers of milk, etc. That's hoping for the best, of course...
what a lovely eulogy. we all now miss uncle bruce
Dear Jeannette,
Your words mean so much to me. I loved uncle Bruce, and wanted to communicate a glimpse of what a dear person he was. Thank you.
I thought of you two Tuesday night, eating enchiladas in front of the fire, as you watched the returns.
Let us know when you're back in Paris.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Daniel,
A final "o" sounds right to me. I've never eaten krumkakke, but now I intend to. I do remember baking sugar cookies with my grandmother, Esther Heimark, that were delicious.
I must read Song of Love. I wouldn't have imagined Genet writing that, and now I'm curious. As to what happens in the Afterlife, I guess we will all find out, won't we! I pictured my father as a hawk, greeting Bruce as his spirit flew up to... here the mystery begins.
Love to you,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Sorry, the Genet book is Un Captif Amoureux, translated as Prisoner of Love, in English, but you will have the luxury of reading it in French! I passed Genet in Berkeley in the 60s one afternoon on Telegraph Avenue, we passed each other on a crosswalk, he in his courderoi jacket with suede elbow patches, and I said, Bonjour Monsieur Genet, and he replied, Bonjour, as he passed.
Ah, Uncle Bruce! You've now become a part of our collective consciousness, of my personal memories, as there and present as my uncle Gianni, who swam naked every morning in the freezing Po River in the Italian Alps; who believed he had mysterious healing power in his hands; and who'd carry me on his shoulders when I was six to look for wild mushrooms and the occasional truffle - which we (triumphant hunters) would bring back to my grandmother who would use them to flavor her polenta, which she stirred relentlessly in her enormous copper pot, which bubbled like a witch's cauldron on the stove.
And Daniel, a truly lovely poem.
Now I miss your uncle, too. What a beautiful and loving offer of memory. There are times when I think all energy is held in this world, like a flame being passed on from form to form.
Laura
Very touching. Thanks for letting others discover a little of your special uncle...
Dear Daniel,
Un captif Amoureux? Oooo, that's even better. That will be my next French book. And how many people on Telegraph Avenue in the '60s do you think would have recognized Genet or greeted him in French? You were rather literate rather young, mon cher ami!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Anna!
Now YOUR uncle Gianni is a part of OUR memory. What a wild Italian family you have. It just explains everything. Thank you for the vivid images of them. Are you going to be continuing the family tradition of swimming naked in the Tiber once you're in Rome? I hear the river is called flavus (or blonde), which would suit you.
Thank you for being such a devoted reader and friend!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Laura,
What a beautiful image. That sounds right--fire, flame, starlight, it's light that we become. What else could stars be?!
Thank you for taking the time to send us your appreciation. I bet Bruce heard it, too.
And it's your birthday week, so joyeux anniversaire, again!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Sab,
Thank you so much. Bruce was indeed a wonderful guy. As my mother said, "He was just a happy, joyous person, the fizz in our drinks."
Keep those paintings and poems coming. We love them.
XO,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Kaaren and Richard,
Thank you for honoring a very special man, our uncle Bruce.
love,
Jane
Dear Jane,
You're so welcome. Bruce was very special, wasn't he. Nothing like an uncle who can make you spit with laughter!
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
This post was WONDERFUL!!!!
I LOVE the story of your sashaying down the driveway w/ Uncle Bruce copying you in jest....
and so much more from this story/eulogy. Ahhhh you captured his essence! Thank you!!!
Love you and Richard and kudos to R for the photoshopped photos too!
xo
S
Dear Suki,
We're so happy you like the post. It's hard to do justice to Uncle Bruce in such a short time and limited space. But if you who knew him feel it caught a glimmer of his essence, we are pleased!
I like the way Richard brought only Bruce to the foreground in that photo. And his smile like a cat's.
Much love and thank you,
Kaaren & Richard
Love these wonderful words for Uncle Bruce. He was a fun person who will be greatly missed.
Dear Ann,
Yes, Bruce will be greatly missed. Thank you for your appreciation.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)