Goodbye, Uncle George
My husband’s uncle George passed away this week. He was a good man who had a lovely family: a beautiful wife, Ruth; five sons; several grandchildren. He lived to the age of 93, an achievement all its own. The family resided in a small house in an older suburb of Cincinnati, and every year, George and Ruth had a Christmas party for everyone in the Van clan. The party was held in the unfinished basement of their home, with folding tables set up practically underneath the wooden stairs and the beer keg next to the washer and dryer. Once everyone arrived, it was pretty cramped, but you couldn’t have asked for a better time. The adults drank and ate and visited in the basement while the little ones played upstairs. Aunt Ruth brought down trays of dog food (a sausage mixture served on tiny bread slices and heated in the oven) to add to the feast while everyone admired cousin Dave’s leather pants. I daresay everyone looked forward to this party, a chance to visit with the family and catch up on each other’s lives.
I remember my first Christmas party at Uncle George’s clearly, even though I was only 17 or 18 at the time. As we drove there that night, Keith warned me that whenever someone brought a new boyfriend or girlfriend to the party, he or she had to know all the names of all the relatives by the end of the night. “There will be a test,” he said. I chuckled, thinking he was joking. How could there be a test? Did Uncle George and Aunt Ruth keep a Scantron somewhere?
When we arrived, Keith began introducing me to his family, and believe me, there were a lot of folks to remember. The cousin’s wife who liked photography. The cousin who was so tall and lanky, he reminded me of a cowboy. The uncle with the bad leg, and the cousin who used to dress Keith up in girls’ clothes when he was little. Their names, and all the others, spun around me like a flurry of snowflakes. I recited them in my head, hoping that the beer Uncle George had given me wouldn’t make my mind fuzzy. Keith quizzed me while we stood around the food table, but there wasn’t much time for practice. Too many people interrupted us, more names to add to the list.
Toward the end of the evening, Uncle George strolled over to me and took my hand. He led me to a metal kitchen chair set up in the center of the room and sat me in it. “Now,” he said, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, “let’s see how many names you remember.”
I glanced around the circle of expectant faces surrounding me. I don’t get nervous in front of people very often, and that was true even in my younger days. But I was nervous then, and even though these folks smiled and teased in a good-natured way, I wanted to impress them. I knew I loved Keith, and I knew someday, this would be my family, too. I searched for Keith, drew some reassurance from his nod, wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, and started naming relatives.
I don’t remember how long it took, or how many I missed. Very few, if I recall correctly. I remember lots of laughing, and I remember Keith smiling proudly when I was finished. And then Uncle George came over to where I sat with a big grin on his face. He took my hand again, pulled me to my feet, and said, “Pretty good. You’re a keeper.”
Those words may not seem like much, but they meant the world to me. In that moment, I felt accepted and loved by the Van clan. And in that moment, Uncle George completely won my heart.
You’re a keeper, too, George. I know Bob and Helen will be so happy to welcome you to the Other Side, along with so many others who have gone before you. We’ll miss you. Thank you for so many happy Christmases and cherished memories.
January 20, 2012 1:25 pm | 
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