Ode to Uncle Moe

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My Uncle Moe. God rest his soul. He died in November 2019 when he left his lane and hit a semi head-on.

He had to have emergency surgery and his lungs couldn’t take the anesthesia. He had emphysema from a lifetime of smoking. We always assumed he’d die young but we expected it would be from blowing the house up from smoking while on oxygen. Have you ever hung out with anyone smoking while on oxygen? No? You have good sense? That’s good. 

Moe. Moby. The last great American outlaw. 

When he was younger, he worked on barges, hauling freight up and down the Mississippi River. 

He had a big scar on his forehead from wrecking a car and going through the windshield. He said he was lying there bloody and half out of it, and the first guy that came along and found him, got out of the car and stole his gas before calling it in. That man was Moe’s cousin. When asked about it, his cousin said, “Well, I thought the boy was dead.” Moe cracked up telling that story. It was one of my favorites. 

He told a lot of stories. He had a lot of stories to tell. And in many of them, he was in trouble because he had been drinking. 

For most of my youth, Moe was in and out of jail for drunk driving offenses until he had finally been in trouble one too many times and they sent him to the prison in Farmington. We’d write him letters and visit sometimes. Mom got me a typewriter and I’d use it to write those letters. 

I hated going to visit him, though. It was boring and the board games sucked. It was just a bunch of shaggy-haired men in white jumpsuits with tattoos chain smoking. There was one wall that was painted with a forest and a stream, and you could pay to take a polaroid photo together in front of it. We’d buy him cartons of cigarettes, dad would joke they must be feeding him well and withholding the barber on account of his gut and his mullet, and mom would cry when we left. He used to say, “They always caught me right before I got home, right on my own street.” 

Most kids play cops and robbers but my cousins and I played cops and drunks. One of us would swerve all over the street on our bicycles until the other one pulled us over. Most adults might be appalled to hear this. But at the Ramsey’s, that’s what we call… what’s the word for it? Oh yeah, funny shit. 

And by saying that kids playing cops and drunks is funny, I don’t mean to write off Moe’s cruelly irresponsible behavior. His poor decisions hurt us, angered us. His life was a tragic one. He was a complicated person and our relationship was complicated, as well. Of course, he deserved to go to prison for his actions. He could have killed someone. I’m sure I would not be able to reflect on Moe’s life the same way if he had hurt someone. But he was just such an unlucky son of a bitch, it’s almost impossible not to look back on his misadventures without being amused. 

If you asked me, was he a drunk? Based on everything I just said, I guess I’d have to begrudgingly say yes. But I don’t remember seeing Moe drunk. Maybe his problem wasn’t drinking. Maybe it was drunk driving. Does that still make you an alcoholic?   

Now… his post-prison addiction to pills… that’s another story for another day… 

But when it comes to boozing, his downfall, I never saw him act the part. He never raised his voice or fell over. I never saw him sick. He didn’t fit into any of the stereotypical boxes of the ‘problematic drunk’. Maybe he just didn’t do any of that in front of us kids. Maybe it was because he stayed up all night and slept on the couch all day. 

After so many years in and out of jail, and then prison, it was hard for Moe to find work. So, he mostly lived at my grandma’s house. Ma was my babysitter while mom and dad were off working at the factory. So, whenever Moe was home, I got to spend a lot of time with him. Sort of. Like I said, he was a night owl. 

There wasn’t a whole lot to do at Ma’s house. I remember my cousin, my sister, and I would take Moe’s empty beer cans that had been set aside for recycling, and we’d litter them all over the yard. Then we would get fishing poles and sit on the picnic table, and see if we could cast our lines well enough to hook a beer-can fish. 

Moe always had run-ins with the law because he always thought he was above it and that the police only existed to shit on everything he wanted to do. Fishing license? Who needs it? Hunting license? Total bullshit. Private property? Who says? 

But the “you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do” life will wear you down. He was in prison when his father, my grandpa, died and he had a hard time living with that. And when his license was revoked for YEARS that was crippling in a town with no public transportation.

When I was a teenager it was exhausting. When you’re 16, you don’t want to be hauling your uncle around. How embarrassing. 

Moe’s solution? He’d ride up and down town on a riding lawnmower. Guess what? You can get a DWI on one of those, too! And guess who found out? That’s right, Uncle Moe. Drunk as shit on a riding lawnmower hauling a mini trailer with a cooler of beer. 

Now, I’ve mentioned before that my aunt being on Jerry Springer helps me win all the who-has-the-biggest-white-trash-family contests. Well, my uncle Moe getting a DWI on a riding lawnmower helps me win the who-has-the-biggest-redneck-family contests. Total sweep. No one else even has a chance. Oh, you drive a Ford F-150 and listen to country music? Sit down, sweetie, and let me give you a lesson in redneck.

There are reasons that TV shows like Roseanne, Trailer Park Boys, and King of the Hill were such big hits. Not only is the writing great, but we know these characters.

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It’s hard to write about someone when there’s all this gray area. Moe was a mess but I loved him.

He was a dog person. He always had a rat terrier that would pull on his pant leg every time he stood up. No matter the dog, they all had that habit.

He loved history and he always had a book on hand.  

He shopped at army surplus stores and wore camouflage jackets that were too big for him.

He loved to see us kids get in trouble. Thought it was fucking hilarious. 

He liked tinkering with things and always broke them and then took them back to Walmart and said they were broken when he bought them.

He had nicknames for all of us. I was Katydid. It’s a kind of grasshopper. 

He loved to hunt and fish and just be outside. He didn’t go anywhere without a pocket knife. 

Just like my grandma, he never threw anything away. 

He was a good cook. 

I guess it’s no surprise he didn’t care what anybody thought about him. But he was also shy. I’m sure he had social anxiety. 

He always asked after my dad and my dad’s family. 

His voice was gruffy and he’d say “winder” instead of “window”, and “yeller” instead of “yellow”. 

He was allergic to everything. 

Moe never had anything bad to say about anybody. I guess he figured who was he to judge. 

And he was never stressed out about anything. Mom said that’s why he never had gray hair. 

Moe always said that when he died he didn’t want to be buried. He said it’s because he’s claustrophobic. He said it often enough that we remembered. He was cremated. They put his ashes in a metal ammo case can. But they still put a headstone in the family lot with his dad and his brother. I think one of my cousin’s finally decided to take his ashes out to the woods and scatter them there. I should ask.

I was the only one that wasn’t at the hospital by his side the day he died. I wish I could have been there. We don’t know what happened. Toxicology reports show this is one wreck he wasn’t drunk for. They say he might have fallen asleep at the wheel. He was 59. The other driver was fine.