Thursday, October 7, 2010

Uncle Dick

My first memory in life is of you. I was wearing a yellow dress, eagerly anticipating your arrival. I stood on our porch. You pulled me down off the porch and swung me around in a big hug. I don't remember anything else about that visit.

You taught me how to tie my shoes. You let me read to you from the Bible when I was 4 years old and had just learned to read. You made me feel so proud to know how to read such big words.

You brought us a bunch of hats one year. It was random and looking back, kind of hilarious---but we loved it.

You brought me my best friend, until you didn't have to bring her and she did the trip without you.

You always insisted on a hug, a great big giant bear hug. I can see you standing in a dozen different places with your head tilted to the side, your arms open wide, your big, telling smiling, just waiting for your hug.

I baled hay on the ranch with you and my cousins. It was hard and satisfying. I love being able to say I've baled hay.

You encouraged me to get good grades in college.

You used to ask me to tell you faith-promoting stories. I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes every time.

You taught me the West Coast Swing and I was a hard, hard, pupil to teach. You made me go to a dance hall and dance with other people. It was terrifying and I tried to get out of it a dozen times or more. I don't believe you understand the words "No" and "I can't."

You didn't sugar coat. And if you did, it was usually an obscure quote I didn't understand.

You knew I didn't know as much as I thought I did, but you didn't make me feel stupid.

You danced with Betty in the kitchen. Even if she was in the middle of seasoning a salmon.

You took me on horseback rides. I think every member of our extended family can say that. I had one ride in college that was particularly soul satisfying. We rode late into the night, past midnight. I was so sore the next day, but that evening with you, on a horse, was just what I needed. I'm sure I never told you that. You probably knew.

You quoted poetry. A lot. Most of the time I didn't understand any of it. Last time you visited me in Iowa you introduced me to Pablo Neruda. Not like most people introduce others to poetry. There was a slight lull in our conversation, we were talking about Josie. It was 4 years later and her absence in our lives was still fresh, raw, sometimes consuming. You suddenly began...

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me once more:
I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.
I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you
to sniff the sea’s aroma that we loved together,
to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live,
and you whom I love and sang above everything else
to continue to flourish, full-flowered:
so that you can reach everything my love directs you to,
so that my shadow can travel along in your hair,
so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

So fitting for you, from Josie. So fitting for us, from you.

When J and I were desperately poor students our car broke down. You rigged it to get us home after Josie's Memorial ride, and then later sent us a check that covered the exact amount of the repair.

You made me think "Uncle" was a way of life. I didn't know not everyone had an uncle like you. I didn't realize for a long time how much time and effort it took for you to be who you were to all of us.

We just bought a house, four days before you died. I spend a lot of time in this quiet house, unpacking boxes. I sit in this big house full of boxes, trying to imagine a house without boxes, and a world without you. I can't believe you won't be in California, standing in the foyer, with your head tilted to the side, your arms open wide.

You have left a void so big, so many lives you've touched, so many people who love you and were loved by you. I'm so glad you are my uncle. So glad you made that word mean so much to me.


Heffalump said...

That is a touching tribute. I am sorry for your loss and know that you find comfort in knowing that this life is not the end.

Lisa said...

That was beautiful. So sorry for your loss.

Mrs. Organic said...

What a wonderful tribute. That poem made me cry, I must read more.

Adolescent Family said...

Sorry to hear you lost your Uncle Dick. Somewhere I missed that you moved though?

Millie said...

Really beautiful. I feel like I know him personally :)

Blessings of comfort and peace to you, my dear.

Carrot Jello said...

Oh man, I know how you felt typing this.
It's how I felt about my uncle when he died a few months ago. :(
Sorry for your loss.

S said...

Just beautiful. I am in the DR office waiting for Rebekah, she is having surgery on her teeth. I am bawling like a baby.(lovely) I should write one of these myself, but it would be eerily similar. He was our "santa" and forever will be. Santa does exist! Dang whose gonna give out the Uncle Dick signature hug now:(

Camille said...

Oh, A. I'm so sorry.

McFamily said...

Thanks so much for this. It was beautiful and captures him so well. I just wish I could have heard his accordion playing while I read it. I'm missing not being able to go say goodbye at the ranch, but this helped.

Rebecca said...

i'm sorry.

Mamarazzi said...

OK I usually just lurk, it's been a long time since we have commented on each other's blogs.

But this post really touched me. I hope to have the same sort of impact on my nieces and nephews, who I love so much.

What a lovely tribute to an obviously amazing man.

Bex said...

Loves your way! Sorry for you loss, but what an amazing tribute to your uncle.

Sister Pottymouth said...

Beautiful. Just beautiful! I'm so sorry.

Klin said...

I am feeling the loss of this wonderful man that I did not know. Your words are amazing.

My cousin, who was 9 days older than my dad and more like an uncle to me, passed away last week. We have a graveside service tomorrow. This man always made me feel special, beautiful, smart, cherished. I am grateful his suffering is over though.

I hope your uncle did not suffer. I hope you find the peace and comfort needed in your memories with him.

I wish I was close enough to hug you and help you unpack. {{Nobo}}

rychelle said...

I was sad to hear! Let me know if you need anything!

BTW, Love Avee's flower in her hair! :)

Sketchy said...

Oh sweetie, what a lovely tribute. When my mom died, someone sent me a card that said, "What a blessing is this pain." I didn't really understand then but I think I do now.


Bubbles said...

Did I tell you not long after I returned from my mission, he loaded two horses up into the trailer and we went to Mt. Diablo and rode around on the trails there, just so he could hear all about France? He also picked my brain about someone I was dating at the time, who turned out to be very wrong for me. I think he helped me see that. He also shared some things about his own marriage.
Oh, yeah, and I'm not even related to him. He treated everyone as family. Your whole family does that. That's one of the many things I love about all of you.

Tori said...

You are so so so blessed to have had the time you did with him. I honestly did not know uncles were like that. I know I don't have an uncle like that. You are blessed!!!

Plain Jame said...

Awwww, what a way to make a grown girl weep.
I am honestly thinking that I haven't been here in several months, but really - it's more that I kindof stopped reading my google reader every week because my baby became mobile and starting to do things like almost die, and break expensive things.
I miss the blogging world. *sigh*
Hope all is well, and that you love your new house. :)