Stories of My Uncle
For Pride, I share stories about my late uncle, Kalani
My uncle, who died in January 1987, lived a glamorous life I only saw glimpses of. He was gay, a fact most of us only found out in mid-1986 when he got sick. Occasionally, people from his past find me online and share stories of their connections with the man they knew as Scott, his first name, or Kalani, his middle name, or Uncle Buddy, the name I gave him. There was so much of him one name was not enough. For Pride, I’ll be sharing stories of the uncle I miss and a man I only thought I knew. This week, Jill Charlotte Stanford, no relation, shares a memory about the comical vanity of his hands.
by Jill Charlotte Stanford
Kalani’s modeling profile that was given to clients looking for just the “right” guy for their advertisements, had photos, his height and weight and the words, “Good hands — all sports.”
This was not entirely true.
While he could ride like an Indian, and run and catch a football, looked pretty darn nifty in a bathing suit he did not know how to play tennis. Or even how to hold the racquet . . .
We had rented a beach house in Gearhart for two weeks that had a tennis court, and it just so happened that Kalani was going to be in Oregon at that time. We invited him to join us and Roger, who was an avid tennis player and quite good, volunteered to teach Kalani how to play tennis. Or, at least well enough for photo opportunities.
It was an idyllic five days he was with us — the sun shone every day, we took long walks on the beach and he got his lessons. Typically of Kalani, he went all in and had purchased an entire tennis outfit, including the white shorts, LaCost white shirt and the requisite white cabled pull over sweater with the red and blue stripes on the cuff, around the v-neck and the waist. Tennis shoes, of course. He looked , of course, just perfect in this and ready for a Ralph Lauren photo shoot.
On the day he was driving back to Portland, early the next morning, Roger schooled him one last time on how to properly hold the racquet (he brought his extra one) and how to serve the ball. Kalani was quite good at serving the ball. He was terrible at gauging where the return serve was going to be and that he ought to be there too. There was a lot of laughter. I took photos of his hands and the racquet as well as a few of him serving so he could pass these along to his modeling agency, Ford. He was fulfilling his “ . . . all sports” part. Just in case.
Kalani took very, very good care of his hands. They were perfection and he did a lot of “hand work” for Ford in addition to facial and full-figure shots.
After the lesson, the guys changed into regular clothes ( I think Kalani would have liked to swan around a little in his tennis duds, but Roger convinced him this was the Oregon Coast and not Wimbledon ) so he changed into his usual faded 501 Levi’s and white oxford shirt with loafers. We drove to Seaside and fooled around in the Arcade, Bumper Cars, ate Caramel Corn (that was lunch) and watched the tourists for a bit.
He had borrowed his sisters car, an old beater of a VW bug. He had parked it in front of the garage, up the driveway next to the house.
When we got back to Gearhart, there was an enormous pile of firewood dumped in the driveway, completely eclipsing the VW. You could barely see the top of it.
The beach house was only heated with fireplaces and apparently the owners had ordered this wood, without telling us, and so there it was.
There was only one thing to do if Kalani was to get back to Portland catch his flight to Redmond.
Roger and Kalani went to the local hardware store and purchased leather work gloves. They came back and moved and stacked two cords of firewood into the garage, piece by piece. I provided ice water and encouragement.
Kalani took a quick shower, redressed and backed the VW out of the driveway and left, waving his gloves which he insisted on keeping.
Kalani’s Good Hands were still perfect. And it would be safe to say “All Sports” as well.
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