Only eleven people showed up to his funeral; only nine of us were family.  Two local reporters and the cop that shot him. 

 

That was it. 

 

I guess the small crowd was a testament to a lonely life. 

 

For what it’s worth, the reporters tried to be respectful.  Their questions seemed to come from a genuine place of remorse for my Uncle Kenton.  They asked if there was any “history of mental illness” or “any history of substance abuse,” that any of us could recall.  Uncle Kenton’s brother - my father - was short with his response - “He was just crazy.  He wasted his life.”  

 

My father loved his older brother - he took care of him; he’d check-in with my recluse of an uncle every Saturday night.  There was a lot of “tough love” however.  And no matter the facts, any conversation that was had with my father,  about my uncle, would inevitably end with something like “even idiots can be loved.  I love my brother but he’s an idiot.”  

 

Both my father and my uncle were from a generation that didn’t understand the true spectrum of mental illness like we do today.  And even after a lifetime of enduring my father's comments like “you’re wasting your life away…” and the “get a job,” my uncle was simply incapable of existing in modern society. 

 

Even as I got older, went to college, and became a biology teacher, conversations with my father about the probability that his older brother had a diagnosable mental health disorder on the autism spectrum, never ended with my father convinced. As far as he was concerned, my Uncle Kenton - his older brother - was just the “village idiot,” and my father was his unofficial custodian. 

 

And even as we sit in this little cemetery in Tilson, New York - the priest fondly reminiscing about one of his devoted flock - my Uncle Kenton is only remembered by the few who looked after him as “crazy.” And even as Sheriff’s Deputy O’Malley - the man who killed my uncle - weeps about the “gentle old man that just wouldn’t listen,” nobody knows the real truth; nobody knows the real Uncle Kenton that I know. 

 

Not his brother, not his sister, and not even his priest. 

 

I’d always known that my Uncle Kenton was special.  And not in the sense that you might think either.  There was so much more to him then anybody knew; that anybody wanted to know.  And while the immediate family - like my father - looked after the well being of my Uncle Kenton for more than seventy years, none of them ever took the time to truly know the complicated man that he was. 

 

And honestly, I’m equally at fault. We were all guilty of referring to my Uncle Kenton as “crazy” from time-to-time.  But while some used the term as an insult, I used it as a way to endear him to others.  And it wasn’t until about three months ago that I really learned how incredible my Uncle Kenton was.  And now its time to tell the world; I am obligated to tell the world.  Everyone should know about this incredible adventure of my crazy Uncle Kenton.