Little Old Hamilton Within this novella lies a story of my uncle, Scott Baur, whose existence within these vignettes is limited to the handful of memories I have from the eight years of my life I knew him for — only some of which I remember. He once called Hamilton Beach his home, and I’d been there many times since his passing — but then again, I hadn’t, really. It wasn’t Hamilton Beach he lived in, it was old Hamilton. I suppose I’d like to call it little old Hamilton — what it was while he lived there, when I knew it best, a place we both left behind in our own ways. Morbidly, sadly, his death acts as an imprint in time for me, the pinpoint of a change in eras. Before Uncle Scott. After Uncle Scott. Before him, I remember a childhood unmarred by grief or life changes. After him, I began a life of awareness of father figures who have come and gone, each in their own time.
In this work of autofiction, I explore the way in which certain life events stir up old memories and experiences from the distant past. Through time and death, Uncle Scott has helped guide me in many ways. This amalgamation of memories and events exists within three fictional days of the Summer of 2019, and within this story, I found cathartic acceptance of many hard truths. In the aftermath of learning these truths, or perhaps the eve of accepting them, my mind and heart took me to one place: Hamilton Beach. Between the pages of Little Old Hamilton is a story that grapples with grief, and between the lines is an epic letter of gratitude that will outlive time and memory itself. |