This week, 'The Chaff' makes you say uncle - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

Uncle Chaff! Uncle Chaff! That’s Uncle Chaff over there, that’s Uncle Chaff right here, that’s Uncle Chaff where you least expect, yet always suspect. Uncle Chaff at the barbecue flipping burgers with bare hands? Classic Uncle Chaff. Uncle Chaff wearing a Hawaiian shirt in January? That’s just layers, baby. Can’t “runkle” the old Uncle Chaff, can’t crumple the cool, can’t out-funk the fool.

 

Is that Uncle Chaff on the golf course? Of course it is! Golf is just a suggestion to Uncle Chaff. The cart is the sport, and the sport is the art. Surfing on a moving golf cart? That’s the Uncle Chaff way.

 

Oh no. Oh yes. Uncle Chaff’s at the wedding. Is he on the dance floor already? No, he’s on the table. That’s Uncle Chaff doing the worm on a buffet! Why? Ask not what Uncle Chaff is doing; ask what reality is doing to accommodate Uncle Chaff. He brought a microphone. Where did he get that microphone? Uncle Chaff does not travel light. Uncle Chaff does not travel at all; the world bends around Uncle Chaff.

 

Who invited this guy? Uncle Chaff! Who keeps inviting this guy? Uncle Chaff! Who will never leave but was never really here? Uncle Chaff! Wacky, tacky, slightly untrackable - Uncle Chaff is your problem now.

 

But wait! Uncle Chaff is not just confined to weddings and golf courses. No, no, no. Uncle Chaff operates on a higher plane, a frequency only detectable by those who have truly let go. Uncle Chaff is at the family reunion, challenging the other uncles to a footrace. Uncle Chaff has bet 30 bucks on the outcome. Uncle Chaff has never run a footrace in his life. Uncle Chaff is in flip-flops. Uncle Chaff wins! Uncle Chaff always wins. The laws of physics take one look at Uncle Chaff and shrug. Who are they to argue?

 

Uncle Chaff is at the beach. Sunbathing? Not a chance. Uncle Chaff is building a sandcastle, nay, a sand kingdom. There are aqueducts, there are defensive walls, there are diplomatic relations being established. Uncle Chaff has a mayoral sash made of kelp. Who elected him? The ocean. The tide comes in, the tide goes out, but Uncle Chaff remains.

 

Uncle Chaff is at the hardware store. Why? Nobody knows. Uncle Chaff is walking the aisles like a king surveying his domain. Uncle Chaff doesn’t need anything; Uncle Chaff is here to absorb the energy of the screws, the bolts, the inexplicably long extension cords. Uncle Chaff is inspecting power tools he has no intention of using. A man asks if Uncle Chaff works here. Uncle Chaff does not work anywhere, but answers with such authority that the man leaves with three items he didn’t know he needed.
Uncle Chaff has a song in his heart and his microphone in hand. The crowd braces. The opening chords play. It’s “Mambo No. 5.” It’s always “Mambo No. 5.” Uncle Chaff has somehow made it longer. There are new verses about Helga, Bettina, and Alice. The song never ends. There is no escape.

 

The Elegy of Uncle Chaff

 

Uncle Chaff.

 

Once, he was everywhere, all at once, a wind that ruffled the fabric of time and tucked itself into the folds of memory. But the golf carts are still now. The dance floors remain untroubled. The barbecue sizzles, unattended, its smoke curling skyward in search of someone who should be here, flipping patties and having bad ideas. 

 

Where is Uncle Chaff?

 

They say he went west, or east, or perhaps never left at all. He is a legend, a whisper carried by the breeze that rustles the palm fronds on a shirt hanging, unworn, in the back of a closet. The microphone he once wielded with reckless abandon now lies silent, its cord curled like a sleeping serpent, dreaming of “Mambo No. 5.”

 

The golf course does not forget. The sand traps still bear the imprint of bare feet, the echoes of laughter drifting over the fairways, mixing with the morning mist. The carts sit idle, waiting for a pilot, an artist, a fool. But there is no one left to surf them, no one to treat the back nine like an untamed frontier. The clubhouse waits, the drinks lined up, untouched, their tiny umbrellas tilting ever so slightly, as if bowing in reverence.

 

And yet, Uncle Chaff lingers. Not in body, perhaps, but in spirit. A niece sneaks an extra slice of cake and feels the approval of an unseen force. A nephew ties his tie a little too loosely and wonders why. A Hawaiian shirt catches the eye in a store window, and a hand reaches out, only to stop, trembling, unsure. There are moments, fleeting but real, when the laws of physics stutter, when reality itself hesitates, as if waiting for someone who was never bound by it.

 

Is that Uncle Chaff at the reunion? No, just a trick of the light. A mirage. A shadow cast by something greater than memory, softer than time. But listen closely. The wind carries a sound, faint yet unmistakable, rising from the depths of the universe, from the spaces between molecules, from the laughter of a stranger at the next table over.

 

And then, as though whispered by silence itself: Uncle Chaff.