This past weekend was very busy. My daughter and her family came in for a visit, which meant a lot of Sophia time. My father and stepmom were here too, and that was such a joy because I love watching Sophia interact with them. She does it a little more each time.
When she slows down, that is.
When they left on Sunday, I was very, very tired, as I usually am after spending time with Sophia. I am a grandma, after all, and my energy levels are very different from when her mother was her age.
Very. Different.
Shelby and I ran some errands, did some cleaning, and started putting our home back into its pre-Sophia state. I had bought myself a snack and planned a long afternoon and evening in my chair, enjoying the peace and quiet, recharging my social battery, watching British mysteries, and crocheting.
And then the phone call came.
Like all phone calls like this, it split my life into more epochs. There is a before the call and an after the call.
My Uncle Jim had unexpectedly passed away.
Since then, my mind has been flooded with memories. I have been part of his life for as long as I can remember. He, along with my Aunt Ro (my angel-auntie who went to Heaven eight years ago) made up much of my childhood.
My earliest memory is of being sick while visiting them.
Over the years, Uncle Jim taught me what family meant and how much one person can do for the people they love, often at the expense of themselves. He also became one of the few men who set the standard by which I measure all the other men in my life.
As a child, I remember sitting in front of the living room fan, fresh from a cool bath after playing outside all day in the summer heat. Uncle Jim would sip an RC Cola while we watched M*A*S*H. He was a Vietnam veteran, so watching that show with him felt like catching a glimpse of what his life might have been like.
Uncle Jim also taught me the fine art of finding alternative vocabulary when certain words were forbidden. Specifically, when we were watching football. Football required a very specific collection of words that could not be repeated by us kids. I’ll spare you the actual vocabulary, but let’s just say he had a creative way of expressing his displeasure with a referee without technically using a swear word.
And then there were football games in person. Give Uncle Jim about ten minutes in the stands and he would somehow know everyone within a ten-foot radius. And I mean know them. First names, where they were from, probably what they had for breakfast. Every man was “Guy.” “Hey, Guy!” “How ya doing, Guy?” “Good game, Guy!” Put him anywhere, and somehow, he belonged.
He never hugged any of us kids without first hugging his wife. That was always reserved for her.
While my home life was atypical, theirs felt like stepping into The Dick Van Dyke Show. He even looked like Rob Petrie!
As a teenager, I lived with my mom a few doors down from Aunt Ro and Uncle Jim. It was where I turned sixteen.
Like most girls, I threw a party and invited all my “friends.” One by one, they offered excuses for why they couldn’t come. People have always come into and out of my life without much explanation, and honestly, it still happens today. I’ve learned to grow a thick skin and stick with the few people who have proven themselves true.
Shortly after the last girl called to say she wouldn’t make it, I retreated into my room…and into my imagination.
Then the doorbell rang.
Uncle Jim stood there in a suit and tie, holding a bouquet of flowers.
He had heard about my party.
We went to Baker’s Square, where I had dinner and a slice of birthday pie. He listened to all my silly dreams. He wiped away my tears. He made me laugh. He told me I was worth tens of thousands of all those girls who didn’t show up.
I knew that wasn’t true.
But it made me feel pretty darn good at the time.
He also took me to my high school junior father-daughter dinner dance. Unlike the other dads, who stood on the sidelines or sat at the tables, Uncle Jim never missed a dance.
We danced the slow ones, just like we used to when I was little and would stand on top of his feet. And when “The Twist” came on, he opened up a space and let those gangly arms and legs flail about quite unnaturally, I might add.
One would think an ambulance would need to be called.
Then came Good Morning, Vietnam.
When the movie came out, Uncle Jim told me he had heard Adrian Cronauer when he was in the service. I knew the movie would be important to him, and we were both Robin Williams fans, so naturally, we went together.
As we found our seats, I commented that I loved the song playing overhead but couldn’t remember who sang it.
Uncle Jim excused himself and left the auditorium.
I thought nothing of it until he came back, apologizing that the manager didn’t know the artist either.
Except that wasn’t quite what happened.
He had actually approached the manager just to find out the name of the artist for me.
That was Uncle Jim.
When I told him I was getting divorced, he offered to move Heaven and hell to bring me and my girls back home, where he believed we belonged.
He wasn’t perfect.
None of us are.
But over the years, I watched him do hard things.
He tried to heal from PTSD after serving in Vietnam and enduring the horrible welcome he received when he came home.
He held his wife together as they lost baby after baby.
He tried to maintain his dignity in the face of joblessness.
And finally, he knew when it was time to let go. He said goodbye to his wife of forty-seven years, held her hand, and told her it was okay to go to Jesus.
No, he wasn’t perfect.
But he was always there.
He always showed up.
He always opened his arms.
He never wanted to see anyone out in the cold or without a home.
He was the kind of man who, when eighteen-month-old me cried and cried because my Aunt Ro was going out on a date, turned the car around and told his soon-to-be girlfriend—and later his wife—to go back and “get Vikki.”
Yes.
I went with them on their very first date.
He was that kind of man.
And now he’s gone.
And somehow, I find myself grieving not only the man I lost this week, but the little girl I was when he showed up for her.
The teenager sitting alone in her bedroom on her Sweet Sixteen.
The young woman who needed someone to dance with her.
The divorced mom who needed someone to tell her that she and her girls belonged somewhere safe.
And the little eighteen-month-old who simply didn’t want Aunt Ro to leave without her.
Uncle Jim showed up for all of them.
He showed up for me.
And I think that may be what grief is doing to me right now – reminding me of just how many times one person can quietly become part of the foundation of your life.
I knew I loved him.
I just didn’t realize how much of my life he was holding up until now.
