My uncle is cheap.

He lives in New Mexico in a trailer surrounded by lots of land.

He doesn’t own a telephone and sends handwritten letters, written in a mish-mash of English and Korean and sometimes with small illustrations.

He doesn’t own a television and prefers to listen to his radio, NPR being the only choice.

He has excerpts from Thoreau written and posted on his walls.

The fastest he drives is 57 mph because he says he gets the most mileage.  His Honda is missing a window in the back, replaced with a piece of wood.   

He had my brother visit him for a long weekend. 

My brother said that my uncle lived like a crazy man.

And also, that the way my uncle lived was “so cool”.

Once when my uncle visited us in Ohio my father took him to a BMW dealership.  He test drove a convertible, his “dream car”.

When he went back to New Mexico he bought the same model, paid in full with cash.

On nice days he’ll take the BMW out for a ride, the kids running beside him asking for a ride.  

When he drives that car he feels like a king.