Charlie Sopheric wasn’t an overly skinny man, yet wasn’t overweight either. He wasn’t tall, yet wasn’t short. He was what some would call, average; though he was far from it. His half oval framed spectacles often complimented his long face, though he only wore them when reading. He kept his hair cut short and layered in the back, yet long enough to wear behind his ears. Between his dark brown hair and his smooth pale skin, his gray eyes always seemed as warm as the sun. He was a bit old fashioned, yet with a mix of modern thinking. He was always well kept with a clean shave; always insisting on shaving with a straight razor the “old fashion way”. It was all very romantic, I suppose, stropping the thin stainless steal razor along the thick strip of brown poly-urethane and canvas while the brush soaked in warm water before each shave. His favorite part was twirling the soap into a thick lather with the finest synthetic shaving brush money can buy. He always made sure to keep what he was doing as cruelty free as possible. This was with as much attention and respect and care of human beings as it was of animals.

Each piece of his wardrobe was virtually indistinguishable from the others. On any given day you’d be likely to find him donning a “stripey” button up shirt in a shade of green, gray, blue, or black. This was nearly always complimented with a pair of well pressed black dress  pants. Perhaps Charlie’s most distinguished feature of note, if you had met him before my fifth birthday, was the black hat that was something crossed between a derby and a bowler that he wore when he went out. When I turned five, Charlie decided that I should have it. When I put it on the first time it hung down around my ears and over my eyes. Charlie would joke that I looked like I had a lot of growing to do.

Even though I grew up without a mom and dad, Charlie didn’t want me to think of him as my father. He always made a point to stay upfront with me and never hid the truth about how he and I came together. I’ve been known to embellish our story a little bit when I retell it.

Raising me, I always called him Charlie or Uncle Charlie, though he could have easily adopted me as his own child, we were happy to have each other as we did. He believed in being open with me and in turn I was almost always open with him. I never felt the lack of parents in my life, Charlie was always enough.

He wasn’t against collecting stuff; he had quite the collection. The majority of it was kept where there was the most room, the basement. He collected anything in everything: Antique chess boards, baby and wisdom teeth of friends, x-rays of strangers, an impressive array of world globes, balls of yarn of every color imaginable, and even the occasional parking ticket. He framed the best of them and they hung proudly on the wall in the upstairs hall. He was the most proud of the parking ticket he received for parking a toy bus in front of the town hall for over a month.

I think Charlies most impressive collection had to be his books. Knowledge was his passion though he rarely developed any technical skill with the exception of a few conjuring tricks.

The library was hidden behind a false wall in the basement of his home that could be found at the base of the stairs when you first walked down. By pressing one of the false brinks at about waste level, the wall would open into a maze of books that would make any librarian worth their weight in novels drool. The shelves themselves weren’t anything special. They were made of wood boards stacked between red bricks and lined the unfinished basement walls as far as the eye could see. I used to believe it went on forever, making him knowledgeable on almost any topic imaginable. He practically was. I spent a great deal of time down there combing through book after book.

There were two tall backed antique chairs with faded burgundy cushions that looked like something that belonged in a Lewis Carroll novel. We spent a lot of time in those chairs. In between those two chairs was a small circular marble topped table, a reading lamp that cast shadows that seemed to dance on the walls, and an Crosely companion Cathedral style radio. Sometimes Charlie would dial a station of static and leave it playing at a low level while we worked. The rest of the basement was an organized labyrinth of boxes that weaved in and out between the shelves. When we were down there the rest of the world disappeared.

“Charlie, how do you keep track or everything?”, I asked one day while we were weaving in and out of the maze of books.

“I have my own system. I arrange the titles by binding, then by color, and finally by subject. It just feel more organic to me than by title or author.”

“But what about these?”, I pulled a few books down that didn’t seem to fit the system Charlie described.

“Sometimes not everything needs a system.”

“Then how do you know where to find them when you want them?” My fingers danced along the bindings of the books, like a stick being dragged along the slots of a fence, as I continued to walk between the shelves.
“I simply remember where I put them, George.” He winked and pulled down a book and tossed it to me. “You might like this one.”
I looked down at the yellow colored book in my lap. The cover read, “The Memory Book.”
“I had the memory of a Goldfish before I read that one!” Charlie joked. “You know… Orange.”
“But I thought you told me that goldfish had really great memories?”
“They do, George. They do.”
Charlie always told bizarre jokes like this. I didn’t get it but they were probably always brilliant.

Uncle Charlie had always been a bit of a loner but had a heart that was so full of passion it could turn a demon onto believing in Love if they ever took the time to notice more than themselves.

I don’t remembered Uncle Charlie dating during my time with him. It was the only subject Charlie was hesitant to discuss with me. Anything else, he answered with full disclosure; I asked a lot of questions.

He taught me everything from Darwin to Vonnegut, Aristotle to Plato, Corinda to Vernon, and Beethoven to The Beatles. Ironically, Charlie didn’t play any musical instruments himself. He did, however, teach me my first magic trick: how to vanish a quarter using simple sleight of hand. He would always tell me that in order to direct people’s attention away from the where the quarter secretly hid, my entire body had to communicate where I wanted the audience to believe it was. “Conjuring,” after all, “is a full body sport.”

We’d take breaks and Charlie and I’d play chess on one of his incredible, antique, chess boards. Sometimes instead of sharing a game, we’d go to the park and fly kites and eat peanut butter and apple sandwiches by the river. Sometimes I’d do my own thing while Charlie went and did his.

He always said that the breaks in between were time for the knowledge to steep.

Sometimes, I imagined that it was as simple as ripping out my favorite pages and passing them to Charlie who prepared the kettle of freshly heated water. Once in hand, he’d stuff the pages into the kettle, push down the plunger of the french press, and stand behind me.  As he carefully remove the over-sized hat hanging just over my ears, the top of my skull would be safely carried away with it. He’d steady the kettle with two hands and slowly pour the freshly steeped knowledge into my head.
“Hold still!”, I imagine Charlie warning as he’d take one hand off the kettle to gesture, “You have to let it simmer.”

“I can’t even feel it.” I’d think, while standing there speechless. This paralyzing state of not being able to move my lips to get a sound out fascinates me. I’d wait for him to stop pouring and only then would we sit down over a game of chess and peanut butter and apple sandwiches. Neither of us would seem to find it strange that part of my head was missing or that steam was slowly pouring out down over my eyebrows as the tea cooled.

Of course it wasn’t anything like that at all, but Charlie did make tea. It wasn’t out of the pages of his library, but of chamomile and lemon grass carefully brewed to a beautiful translucent brown. We’d never add sugar as Charlie claimed it “mucked up the purity of things.” If any kind of milk was added it would be an almond or soy milk stirred into the water prior to heating. On the first of the year, Charlie would add in a bit of coconut milk instead. This would have been a ritual I would have continued if given the chance. Charlie claimed that this always made the perfect cup of tea. We’d sit and play chess as we conversed. If I won, it’s because Charlie surely let me. When I lost, Charlie never gloated, but always went back to teach me where things went wrong.

“Charlie?”,  I’d ask moving my bishop to the far side of the brass checkered board in front of his rooks pawn; my queen hiding one space behind. “Why do you love chamomile tea so much?”, He responded moving his knight to take my queens pawn. He could see that he might have a chance to take my rook in one more move. I saw it too and moved my queen to the center of the board threatening his rook.

He paused and sighed for a moment. It was in a way he usually did when I started to hedge in on a topic he wasn’t ready to tell me about. Without thinking he followed through and took my pawn with his knight. He was now threatening my rook before answering: “I fell in love with someone once over a cup of chamomile. She taught me so much about life in such a small window of time. It was a gift and because I love you, I want to share those gifts with you.”“Where is she now? Why don’t you ever talk about her?” I took his rook with my queen. “Check.” I said.

Charlie, realized that he was one move away from checkmate and couldn’t get out of it. I had obviously distracted him as he wasn’t on his usual winning streak.

“Well played.” said Charlie, changing the subject and tossing me another book. “That’s another story for another time, and right now it’s time for bed.”