When I was young, I was part of a diverse group of local children who were all less than intensively parented. “Underparented” would not be strictly true, because in my case, at least, my mother did devote all her time to mothering us; and besides, who is to say how much parenting is best? But all of us had absentee fathers to a greater or lesser degree, because fathers sometimes pass away, or leave, or drink, or have jobs that keep them away from home.

So we all hung out with my uncle, the Peasant, as he called himself. He lived alone in an old house across the pasture and ate dinner with us most evenings. He was a window washer and a bachelor until he was 55, when he married a rich widow. Although most of us were grown by then, we still resented losing him.

The original idea for this website springs from the eccentric, feral upbringing we received at his hands. Summers he would take us camping in the mountains, where we would play with fire, and knives, whatever we wanted. He gave us free reign. I suppose our mothers were relieved to be rid of us for a while, and didn’t ask questions. So Feral Living is a tribute to him, in a way.

Although the Peasant had a manual job, he was self-educated and better-read than most people. He was a history buff, especially WWII. He had a meek, self-deprecating demeanor that allowed him to have long conversations with people more stupid than himself, in which he would play a little dumb himself and watch as they grew more and more pompous.

He sometimes even secretly tape-recorded such conversations. He also took a lot of pictures. I have one of the best-documented childhoods I know of.

He was a practical joker as well, and a maker of prank telephone calls. He was an entertaining babysitter – he let us do whatever we wanted. We could tear the house down if we felt like it. He had a banana fight with one of my cousins in a hotel room once, destroying it. I imagine this may have been partly a strategic decision, to keep his babysitting duties to a minimum, but part of the reason was just because he was vibrating with impulsive bullshitting monkey energy.

Even though some of us did have fathers, he was a central male figure in all of our lives, and he formed our characters as much as anyone else. We were fortunate enough to learn that being eccentric is a lot of fun, and that it is liveable; that people are pompous and that we are no exception to that. That it is fun to play with fire, but that things will burn down if you let them.

Many of us, those most strongly affected by him, still retain common character traits. Eccentricity and outsiderness. The habit of naming everything, and nicknaming anything or anyone that already has a name. He named me Miguel.

He also was generous. Although he had no money of his own, he somehow lent me the money for my first two trips to Europe. He lent everyone money, not insisting that they pay him back.

The biggest thing was just that he was always there for a bunch of lonesome kids.

I write about him in the past tense here, but he’s still alive. He’s in his late seventies now, still sharp and as odd as ever. I hope to be able to take the family over to see him this summer. Gamma was a baby last time she saw him. I want her to have memories of him.