Elegy for an Old Man

I first think of him as strong. A powerful character, my uncle. As strong a personality as ever I have met, and he was way under 5'5". He was difficult, near impossible to have a conversation with "Wait, wait, just wait", he would say. This meant it was his turn to talk. He always went first. He could interrupt. You couldn't.
He was kind. He was fair. He was measured. There could have been no better occupation for Uncle Paul than an accountant from IBM.
He was ambitious. Always looking for an angle. A legal angle. He was honest. As honest as any man. He loved his kids. He loved his grandkids. He loved his wife. They were a perfect couple, it seemed to me, with the eyes of an outsider. She, so poised and dignified, he, so correct and forceful.
He knew what he knew and he knew he was right.
In my youth, I was considered difficult. Most of my siblings knew how to get along. I was stubborn. Wrong. I liked to argue. I knew I was different.
After my Aunt passed and I began spending more time with The Unc, a light came on. I wasn't different. I was Donohue!
He never spent time professing his Irishness. But he was Irish. No question. He loved his faith.
We spent some time in the bowels of the Broome County Courthouse, and online, and at St Pat's and other places, trying to discover the correct spelling of Donohue. Chucky Donahue spelled it differently. The Unc and I found it. He was right.
He loved it when I talked about his Grandfather. "The Old Goat" I called him, Thomas Donohue.
I loved it when, on the phone, he would always great me with "Hey Steph!" When I came over it was always, "Hey Steph, come in come in!" Stephano Yevanes he would call me. I never knew what it meant.
He like to be called The Unc. In the phone book of my cell phone he is listed that way. The Unc.
He was a late braker and I hated riding with him. But I loved going to the races with him. My question was always, would the six hours in the car, be worth the day at the track, if we went to FingerLakes. It was.
I will miss Paul Donohue.
This is for him:

Old Men
by Ogden Nash

People expect old men to die,
They do not really mourn old men.
Old men are different. People look
At them with eyes that wonder when;
People watch with unshocked eyes;
But the old men know when an old man dies.