In my mind, my Uncle Joe Weaver is forever linked with Eveready 9-Lives flashlight batteries and the Little Dipper in the night sky. Quirky memory, I know. I have a lot of those. Uncle Joe is in so many of them.
He died today. It hit me hard.
For a moment, it felt like the North Star had gone dim. Gone as dim as his flashlight that night so long ago. That night when he stood with me out in my grandmother’s yard and looked up. Looked up as he pointed into the spray of stars.
“Polaris,” he explained. “The Pole Star. Part of the Little Dipper. The guidepost light. Used for navigation. For finding your way.”
And he handed me the big 1960s Sportsman Chrome he had just flicked off. Flicked off so we could see the little lights flickering above.
I had watched him earlier load big 9-Lives into its silver bay. Size D. Larger than my little fist: 9-Lives that showed a black cat jumping through the loop in the number 9.
This time the black cat brought me luck. Luck times nine.
It came in steps outside that I counted in nines. Steps counted outside going into the dark amid Grandma WeeWee’s squawking chickens. Chickens perched in Conecuh trees, judging us as fools as we pointed up at the cold sky amid clouds of breath.
Uncle Joe showed me that. He showed me how to search the universe for direction, for guidance, for the axis that helped show the way home, even if others thought us fools. The way home when it was dark and frightening.
After that night, Uncle Joe himself felt like home.
He flew out to the stars today. Out past Polaris. On his way home. And I know that home is where he is now.
Because he told me so as we looked up into that night’s sky.
Robert Craig Waters 