My Uncle Willie: Roses in December

Willie John Otineru - This picture hangs on my wall

After my parents and my angel grandma, the earliest memories I have are of my Uncle Willie. He was only nine when I was born, so part of his teenage years were spent letting this punk kid hang around him, even with a girlfriend or buddies.

There is no shortage of stories about my Uncle, funny or otherwise. Like for instance, once he had a dog. Named Bitch. Yes, it was technically a female dog, but it was funny watching my dad play with her in the backyard, calling her, "Itch" or "Witch" so as not to offend. Or when my wife upon meeting him for the first time at our reception, accidentally looked right into a kiss, catching her square on the mouth! (No one kissed me at the Utah reception.)

Or the time when I was a kid and he was asleep on the floor, I thought it would be interesting to know if putting my stinky foot near his nose would wake him up. It did, and a nanosecond later I was airborne!

Sadly, he passed away 10 years ago, but he still remains relevant in my life. He made me feel important, and what kid doesn't need that?

It was my blessing, and burden, to speak at his funeral . . . and I cannot remember ever feeling so emotionally wiped out after that service.

Below is the text of my talk:

My Uncle Willie
February 26, 2007

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
(The Dash, by Linda Ellis, versus 1-3)

These verses are from the poem, The Dash, by Linda Ellis.  I am John Troxel, Willie’s nephew. . . and probably his whitest blood relative. I will take just a few minutes telling you about what that dash has meant to me.  My Uncle Willie was at all times Superman, Saint, Friend, and Family.

Willie was Superman
Imagine being related to Superman. Uncle Willie was the man of steel of my youth, leaping tall buildings, faster than a speeding locomotive, and all that stuff.  Part of what makes his passing so difficult is the idea that Big Willie was really not bullet proof.

His health had been compromised for some time, but I never saw him as anything less than the strapping young man with a heart as big as all outdoors.

I absolutely loved going to his football games, to watch that big red tank with a 48 on the front and a gold lid... Hearing the announcer describe another touchdown by Willie "oh-TIN-erooo?"  His on field heroics were witnessed by many, but to me he was much more than a meathead, and I love meatheads. As a kid, there was my mom, my dad, my Grandma, and my uncle Willie.

Arguing over which quarter is closer.

Willie was a Saint
Not in the conventional sense. Whenever I talk about my Grandma, I always describe her as a saint. If a saint is someone who is kind, caring, bears adversity with optimism, has a smile for strangers, makes others feel special, then he qualifies.

I even heard him pray. Once.

One year on the day before Christmas, he took me and my brother Neil hiking in the hills behind Mugu Rock. There are a lot of loose rocks in those canyons, and one of them opened up a pretty good gash on Neil’s head. We were still a ways above PCH, but Willie picked up Neil and sprinted down through areas where I had to slide on my butt. Driving around looking for medical attention, I heard Willie LOUDLY praying out of one side of his mouth while out of the other side, lamenting about what his sister was going to do to him. (My mom?) He got Neil to the hospital on base, with a police escort, and after a few stitches Neil was no worse for the wear. That night, as we were opening presents, listening to the same record we played every year, Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus, he received a gift from his sister: a gift-wrapped first aid kit.

With Uncle Willie, I always felt that I was a favorite, and I believe others felt similarly. He was like Grandma, they both had a gift to make people feel uniquely special. Part of Grandma’s goodness was allowing all her grandkids to “believe” that they were her favorite, but if you want to know who was really her favorite, come talk to me afterwards.

Lisa rubbing some feet!

Willie and Grandma both were made of the glue that bound our family together.

Willie was a Friend
He was larger than life, and attracted many into his orbit.  People didn’t stand in his shadow, they basked in his light.  Whenever I speak to Hueneme grads from the 70s, I ask if they knew my Uncle Willie, and they all didn't just know him, but they were his friends. The BMOC always had time for the wallflowers. A friend of mine, Andy Gibson, is an assistant football coach at St. Bonaventure, and there was a big game last season. I’d previously asked Gibby if it were ok if my uncle and I could watch from the sidelines, and he said to call him on his cell when we got there. When we walked on the field, Gibby exclaimed, “Your uncle is Big Willie!?!?” He gave him a hug and made a such big fuss that Willie said later was a little “embarrassing,” but we know he ate it up.

Fun with bungee cords

I think it is appropriate to recognize friends who have gone well beyond the call of duty.  I am grateful that Willie had Bob and Pete, who are both here.  A friend in need is a friend indeed.

Willie was the Epitome of "Family"
If you were a friend, you were family.  Not just his family, but all of ours. As a kid, I remembered Bob, Joe, Sam, Tom and many others who never needed to knock. Compared to those old guys I am still a kid. But Willie's friends were our family.

He had some interesting ways to take care of a smart aleck nephew, my sister Lisa mentioned one last night. (Being required to stand in one place forever.) I found out one day how effective a roll of athletic tape can be in shutting up a snot nosed kid. I remember Grandma only mildly protested. (It turns out "Shut me up" is not the proper response to "Shut up.")

His girls were the apples of his eye. Willie had earlier expressed to me the same thing he told Lisa, that they were the best things he ever did. The best of him are in them.

I think Beth and Jennie are safe here.

When he moved back down here from San Francisco, the unity among his family needed some improvement. Back then he mentioned to me his concerns about family members not getting along. That was, and is, AND IS, a priority of his. We honor him by loving each other.

While scanning photographs, many of which you see on the screens, I took a photo out of a frame that I am certain was placed and last handled by his mother, my Grandma. I considered what I held to be sacred. Scottish author James Barrie said, "God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December." I also hold my memories of Willie as sacred.

There is profound sadness in his absence, but great satisfaction that his suffering ended, and tremendous joy that he is reunited with Grandma, Henry and Bucky.

Hanging out at 835 Spruce Street with my mom, me, Uncle David and Grandpa

My Uncle Willie- Superman, Saint, Friend and Family.

 - Today, thoughts of Uncle Willie make me smile, like roses in December.