Uncle Dick Lochner, by Tom Kinsella

Dick Lochner wasn’t a father to me—he was a father to his own children—but he was my uncle, and a man who populates my earliest and warmest memories, a man who sometimes watched over me and with whom I shared many enjoyable experiences. In ways, he was only a step removed from my father, and I first loved him in that role.

My earliest memories of Uncle Dick are wrapped up in the parties we held for Fall and Spring birthdays. He and Aunt Esther would bring the family to Irondequoit to celebrate one season; Dad and Mom would bring us to Spencerport the next. I remember the house in Spencerport well, especially the basement. Uncle Dick would set up the movie projector and next thing I’d know Abbot and Costello would be drinking water while under water or we’d be watching Apollo moonshots.

Uncle Dick worked at Kodak. This made sense to me in a Kodak town when my Dad worked for Xerox. One time Uncle Dick took me and some of the other kids to a movie at Kodak Park auditorium. I probably wasn’t more than eight years old. In the middle of the movie ( some Disney cartoon, I think), I got violently sick all over myself and the chair next to me. It smelled horrible! Uncle Dick just cleaned me up a bit, gathered the other kids, then got me out of the auditorium where he cleaned me up some more and took us home. He made me feel there was nothing to be ashamed about, although I still feel bad for the people sitting next to us.

Another time Uncle Dick took me and Ted (and maybe Jim) to a Scout Jamboree. We had a great time, met lots of other scouts, and laughed the night away by the fire. Half the place seemed to know Uncle Dick and that added to the fun. It was the first and only jamboree I ever attended.

Very early memories of the cottage include Uncle Dick returning from fishing trips. He always seemed to have a stringer full of fish ( which would attract the snapping turtle). I had a special bond with him when I was younger because I too liked to fish. When I was old enough, he and I would head out early in the morning and late at night. We’d fish until the sun was hot or the lake was dark. It was during one of his fishing trips that he named White Birch Bay, years before we bought the lots in that same bay. One men’s weekend he and I drove up early and got into trouble because the fishing was so good. We stayed on the lake all afternoon, forgetting to drive into town for beer. Dad and the other Uncles weren’t too excited about the “great fishing” when they found out they had no beer.

Somewhere there’s a 16 millimeter film of Uncle Dick and me fishing. We had walked down to the Church’s point with camera and poles and were throwing in our lines. He took some film of me, then I shot him working the shore. After a while he decided to let me keep fishing while he napped a bit. You’ll know the reel. He’s lying on the hill, asleep and I’m busy turning the camera sideways and upside down trying to adequately catch his napping skills.

For a few years we were also golfing buddies, but it wasn’t much fun to play a round with Uncle Dick. I’d head up to the tees and hit the long ball somewhere into the woods. He’d head up to the tees and dink it down the middle of the fairway. At the end of the round I’d have a 72 or so (not bad for 18 holes, too bad we only played 9). He’d have a 45 or 50.

Uncle Dick was also an Algonquin stalwart, attending several years and making all sorts of literary history. Amidst the beauty of the park I came to know him as a man. He was no longer my fishing buddy ( I knew better than to dip my rod in Algonquin waters—he didn’t) or the Uncle who took me off on some day trip. He was the guy in the middle of the canoe who didn’t paddle that much. He didn’t sleep well at night and had a tape player in his tent to listen to Lake Wobegone tapes. He was one of the oldsters, with Dad, Uncle Harold and Uncle Ken, who showed me how to enjoy triscuits and Balderson’s cheese under a fir tree and how to properly self-administer paddle-pain reliever. I listened to his stories around the campfire and he listened to mine. It was at Algonquin that I came to see Dick Lochner the man.

As it turns out, I’ve been blessed with an extended family of loving aunts, uncles, and cousins. Like a photo album stuffed with pictures, they’ve filled my head. Uncle Dick stands tall in my album. He’s the guy with the smile, the gravelly Lochner voice, and the great laugh.

Picture One: Uncle Dick, August 1954, 'Old Man and the Sea'

Picture Two: Uncle Dick, May 1952

Picture Three: Uncle Dick, Tom Kinsella and Ted Lochner, July 1968

Picture Four: Uncle Dick, June 1967

Picture Five: Uncle Dick, May 1969