My Uncle Clarence

My uncle Clarence Hill died on November 2, 2019. An enormously popular teacher, he taught history and psychology at Valle Catholic High School in Ste. Genevieve, MO, for thirty years. Of course, that was outside my direct experience. He also served in the United States Marine Corps. Below are my remarks at his funeral service in Ste. Genevieve, along the Mississippi River, on November 9, where I was the last of five speakers. (It’s tempting to clean the text up, but I shall resist.)

Most of my memories of my Uncle Clarence center on when I was a kid.

We used to visit Missouri during the summer, and I would look forward to the places my Uncle Clarence would take us. I always knew he would have something interesting for us to do, and he never failed to deliver.

What I most remember are the utterly unique places he took us to, like Johnson’s Shut-ins. Of course, Clarence was not the only person to know about such places, but it seemed that way to me. I was probably eleven or twelve the last time I was at Johnson’s Shut-ins. I remember it as an incredible place to swim, what amounted to a natural waterpark: large rockpiles worn smooth by the river running through it. 

The river and all those rocks formed small pools and natural slides. At some point the river emptied into a sort of lagoon walled in on one side by a high cliff. From way up at the top, older kids with more nerve than I had would jump into the deep water. I looked up Johnson’s Shut-ins the other day – which is to say, I Googled it – and learned for the first time that it’s a state park on the East Fork Black River.

Another time, Clarence took us on a hike up a long trail climbing to something called Pilot’s Knob which, thank you Google, is a mountain that was heavily mined more than a century ago. I remember a scorching hot day. As we went up the trail, Clarence assured us that before reaching the top we’d get relief from the intense heat. And sure enough we began to feel drafts of cold air, long before reaching its source – which turned out to be an old mining shaft, a spot known, Clarence said, as the Devil’s Icebox.

These were the kinds of places, it seemed to me, that Clarence, and only Clarence, knew about in abundance.

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The memory that really stands out occurred on a summer evening one of the years we came down here from Michigan. It must have been soon after dinner. Clarence either had a horse, or had access to one, and took us to a nearby farm to see it: my sisters and me, and his two sisters, Norma and Helen, Helen being my mom. My cousins Robin and Kelly, and Greg and Amy, were probably there, too.

Clarence showed us the horse, but soon enough saddled up and began riding around a meadow. We kids occupied ourselves the way kids do, and my mother and Norma stood along the fence enclosing the meadow, talking quietly to each other.

It was that perfect time of a late summer day: all quiet, dusk just taking hold, the day’s heat finally easing. I was probably looking at bugs, or something like that. But suddenly the early evening stillness was broken by the thunder of pounding hooves: I looked up, and saw Clarence galloping across the meadow. He extended one arm, formed a pistol with his forefinger, and cried out: Pow pow pow pow pow!

He must have seen a rabbit. Whatever it was, my mother and Norma fell against each other, laughing so hard they might have wet their pants. One of them, I don’t remember which, said to the other, “I don’t care if he lives to be a hundred, Clarence is never going to grow up!”

I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I do now: that’s a pretty good way to be.

Years later we visited Clarence again. This time I had my wife and two kids with me, and we were pleased to also meet Donna and her son Brian. And wouldn’t you know it, Clarence took us to another utterly unique place, which is probably not too far from here. I’m sorry to say I can’t remember the name; it may have been a private farm. It was a beautiful setting, nestled into a clearing in the woods, but what made it so wonderful were all the animals. My son Marshall likes animals, but was happiest seeing Brian, another kid his age. But for my daughter Dana – she’s never met an animal she doesn’t like. Clarence, of course, was the same way. Here were ponies, goats, chickens, roosters, a peacock, and many others – a menagerie of the type my daughter might have wished for in her dreams.

So, thank-you for that, Clarence. And thank-you for all those places you took us as kids. I know you had a million of ’em. And thank you for always remaining so young at heart – as Norma and Helen put it a long time ago, for never growing up, at least not any more than necessary.