it's just a number

another birthday.


17 was a good year. I had a motorcycle, didn't have to buy groceries, and I spent the summer mowing lawns, riding my motorcycle, and hanging out with my buddies. 17 was good.


Through the magic of Facebook (that Zuckerberg, didn't he look nice in a suit in front of Congress?) I have been reading and seeing my high school classmates (Class of '77, do the math) celebrate their birthdays as we approach or hit the 6-0 mark. 41 years ago we marched to Pomp and Circumstance, heard some speeches about changing the world, or it's all in front of us, or some other semi rhetorical pearls.


Now please leave our school, get jobs, pay taxes, have a life. And try not to get caught.


Save a few experiences with the Dixon Police Department and the California Highway Patrol, I did not get caught. Looking back, I must have had some major luck to get this far. And too many of our classmates have not made it this far. That leaves the rest of us to deal with grief and maybe even some survivor's guilt.


It's pretty sobering to think that I am now older than most of my high school teachers were when I sat in their classes. And didn't they seem old? Yikes. I was born right before Camelot and spent grade school and junior high years in the Vietnam era.  We came of age in the 70's. Remember Watergate, the fall of Saigon (on my 16th birthday), Burt Reynolds movies (who didn't want a Black Trans Am?) and, sadly, disco. I told my cowboy buddies the only reason I went to see Saturday Night Fever was because of the girl I was dating then. 40 years later I say 'I saw that classic when it came out', as if I had some 18 year old insight into pop culture and it's last effects on the American psyche.


Moving on to the 80's it was marriage, having a  kid, hitting 30, losing my dad, and drifting.


The 90's saw another kid, a major upheaval in location (Why did you leave Marin County and wind up in St Paul? Well, this is where the gas money ran out), earning a degree, and the start of my first real career. I've had jobs and I've had careers. It might be said that a career is better than a job. Well, that's bullshit. I've had great jobs, lousy jobs, and career highs and lows. The money spends the same. The kids didn't care if I had a job or career. They just wanted some time with dad. (ok, I'm assuming they did. I think they did, except of course from ages 15 - 19, when parents ceased to exist. A temporary condition.)


The turn of the century brought on my second career right before 9/11, kids growing up, and the loss of a real good friend. Into the 'teens' it was another degree, losing my mom and the kids getting all growed up and leaving the house.


Boys, please get jobs, pay taxes, have a good life. And try not to get caught.


The horizon that masked retirement for so long is now in sight. And, looking damned more inviting than ever. Getting up at 5 to shag my ass into work and tolerate bureaucracy and millennials is not fun anymore. And, who knows, maybe some grandchildren at some point. (no, none on the way that I know of) I was in strict denial about becoming a grandpa for a long time, but now it's beginning to look interesting. Kind of like renting a cool car, then dropping it off before you have to do maintenance. Yeah I can see myself taking a grandkid to a ballgame, movies, motorcycle rides.


A couple years ago, a small group of us from work took an afternoon off and went for a motorcycle ride. A few weeks later, one the guys caught me at work and said '..you ride 20 years younger than you are"


errr, well, ok, thanks. I guess. But inside I was giving myself a major fist bump. There's a 17 year old still inside, and he comes out every once in awhile. Use the Force, Luke, let go.


yeah, it's just a number.  It's getting bigger every year. And before you say it, yes it beats the alternative.


And now, to bring this to a merciful close, a couple song quotes.


"Cowboy in the Jungle" by Jimmy Buffett


Spinning around in circles
Living it day to day
And still twenty four hours, maybe sixty good years
It's still not that long a stay.


"Much too Young to Feel this Damned Old" by Garth Brooks

And the white line's getting longer and the saddle's getting cold
I'm much too young to feel this damn old
All my cards are on the table with no ace left in the hole
I'm much too young to feel this damn old

Lord, I'm much too young to feel this damn old

why I do this

At the end of the movie 'Stand By Me', there is a voice over that says'" although I hadn't seen him in more than ten years, I know I'll miss him forever"

Yesterday was the birthday of the best friend I ever had.  Every year I try to do a little post with some pictures, of my friend Gene. I post some pictures, write a few words, and then watch as people read the words, see the pictures, then make a nice comment about him, or me, as the friend who misses him.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this, as he has been gone several years now. Maybe I should move on, and not succumb to the periods of maudlin behavior. Well, those are fleeting thoughts.

I don't know if there is an afterlife. Maybe yes, maybe no. I'd like to think so, that there is some reward for us when it is all over. What I do firmly believe in, is that Gene will never really be gone as long as we remember him. He lived a good life and deserves to be remembered. There are a lot of people, family and friends, that miss him, I'm not alone in that. So I do my part, I post a picture, I try to find some words to write down, and hope that his memory will never fade.

I was not a easy friend for Gene to have, he said on more than one occasion that I 'stretched the bounds of friendship.'  He was right, I can't deny that. But, he was a true friend, he not only valued friendship and loyalty, he lived it. He would never admit it, but he lead by example.

I moved away from Gene and all the friends I grew up with about 24 years ago, in search of better opportunities and some adventure. As the years passed, I would call Gene now and then to catch up, usually on or around his birthday. I missed the day one year, and called about a week later.

"hey Gene how's it going? I meant to call you on your birthday, but I got busy and forgot."

  .... or some lame excuse like that.

I expected him to let me off the hook. But, his reply was

"...I noticed."

  Oh. Just hang the sign 'world's worst friend' around my neck and parade me through town.

 I'm sure he enjoyed that. I bet he was smiling when we were done talking and hung up.

  I got it in my head that when Gene  hit his 50th birthday, I would show up at his place in a nice rent a car and tell him to pack a bag, we're doing a road trip. What a great idea. The 50th was a few years or more away, and we'd have another adventure. Wow, what a cool idea. Waaaay cool.

But, he didn't make it to his 50th. He fell about 4 years short of it.

What the hell was I thinking? Waiting for some magic number to happen, so we'd have an excuse to have an adventure. What crap. Just wanting to have an adventure is reason enough. Shit.

Now, I'm not going to go on about 'life is short' or some other well worn axiom. I won't do that. No one needs me to tell them that. What I will say, is that regret is a tough thing to live with, as tough as grief. Both very hard to get over, if at all.

What I do say is that Gene's final gift to me was to get past the crap and just get on with what you want to do. Take the road trip. Call your best friend. And if your best friend is no longer on this earth, take him or her on the adventure anyhow.

Because, they are never really gone as long as we remember them.

la vie dasante

it's the season

Kenny Chesney has a song, "I Go Back", and one of the lines goes like this, 'we all have a song that somehow stamped our lives...' This is true for everyone, whether we realize it our not.

There are songs that have stamped my life, some are fun, some sentimental, some just sad.

Included with those songs that have somehow stamped my life are a handful of Christmas songs, songs that evoke images of events past that I will never forget, nor would I want to.

When I hear "Silver Bells" I hear my Dad singing it, with a deep baritone. He didn't know all the words, but he could kill on the chorus. He would sing the chorus, then hum the rest. When he hummed I could hear his mom, my Grandma. She hummed a lot and sang, always always a song in her heart. Dad grew up poor, really poor, and during those years Christmas was probably barely distinguishable from the rest of the year. But you can bet when he sang and hummed Silver Bells as an adult, he thought of those Christmases growing up and hearing his beloved 'mum' singing and humming.

"Away in the Manger" brings back memories so strong that to this day I am at or near tears when I hear it. It was December of 1984, a particularly hard Christmas for the family. My dad died 10 days before Christmas, and then his father, my grandpa, died 5 days later.  Their funerals were back to back on successive days, just a few days before Christmas. At the end of Grandpa's service the Pastor had the congregation sing "Away in the Manger" as the pallbearers carried grandpa out of the church. It was the culmination of some tough days, and I could not sing the song. I know the words, but could not get them out.  To this day, when I hear that song I'm back in the pews in Lund Lutheran Church, sitting next to my sisters and cousin Deb and watching grandpa taking his last journey as his friends, neighbors and family sing "Away in the Manger".

"Jingle Bells" evokes a happier time, a big family Christmas at my sister's house in California. Nearly every year the whole family would gather for Christmas Eve; aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, nieces, nephews, cousins, the whole clan. A big expansive meal, then clean up, then presents. One particular year, I was washing dishes with my niece Angela, and we spontaneously starting singing Jingle Bells. Soon most of the family joined in, and it was a joyous time. Ange and I were enthusiastic, if not off key singers, and we really belted it out on the "ho ho ho's", giving the ensemble some kick. Let me tell you, there is nothing better than doing dishes with your niece and singing Jingle Bells. A true Christmas gift I will carry with me forever.

Whatever your favorite Christmas song may be, I hope it is one that brings back strong memories that you cherish and will never forget. The presents come and go, but it's the memories of Christmas past that are true gifts. This year, make a new memory.

feliz navidad

I'll be home for Christmas

Every time I hear "I'll be home for Christmas", a song written about a soldier away from home in wartime, I think of my dad in World War II spending Christmas 1944 in Germany. He was in the Ardennes in Belgium, the Battle of the Bulge. So far away from home, in combat, and probably wishing he was home. He made it home, but not after spending one more Christmas overseas, this time in occupied Germany, soon headed home in a troop ship.

I never spent a Christmas overseas away from my family, but there was one Christmas when I was on my own, and far from where my parents lived. It was 1982, and two days before Thanksgiving I was laid off from my job in construction. At the end of the day on Tuesday, our foreman told us "after tomorrow, that's it. No more work for a while". No severance pay, no vacation, no nothing. That's it alright. I filed for unemployment, looked for work but it was recession time, and winter to boot, so not many jobs for a 23 year old with no degree and not many skills.

I spent a lot of time alone in my duplex, watching TV and lamenting about my life. I lived in Northern California, and my parents had retired to Minnesota. I was looking forward to a pretty dismal Christmas and New Years.

After Thanksgiving, my parents called me and said, 'why don't you come to Minnesota for Christmas, we'll pay for your ticket'. Of course this was way before the Internet and Travelocity, so I had to get a ticket and they would pay me back. I had about $200 in savings, and very little cash in my pocket. I did get a round trip ticket from California to Minnesota for $200 (remember, this is the early 80s), so I headed to Minnesota.

I flew into Minneapolis, then caught a flight to Bemidji in Northern Minnesota. This included a stop over in Brainerd Minnesota. The twin turbopop came in for a landing, slid a bit back and forth down the ice and snow covered runway, dropped off some mail and passengers, and then slipped and slid down the runway, headed for the skies again. I was not sure if I would survive the trip. But I made it to Bemidji.

Dad was there to meet me, sitting in his pickup with the heater on, snacking on malted milk balls. It was cold. Really cold, compared to the warmth of California. I loaded my bags in the pickup and we headed off to home, about an hour away. The roads were covered with ice and snow too, just like the runway in Brainerd. 'The roads are in pretty good shape', dad is telling me. 'As long as you keep one wheel on dry pavement there's plenty of traction'.  We came to a 4 way stop, and a car approaching from the right hit his brakes, did a couple 360s through the intersection, and proceeded on his way. Dad didn't even seem to notice, he kept talking about how good the roads were. My God, these people are insane.

We made it home, a warm cozy house, and in time for dinner. I can almost remember the smell of dinner, and seeing Mom greet me. They were happy to have me home, the baby of the family. I spent the next couple weeks visiting relatives, played a lot of cards with  Great Auntie Alma and Great Uncle Otto, ate way too much food, and spend New Years Eve in Shorty's Place, celebrating with my parents and Auntie Flo and Uncle Floyd. I called bingo for the old folks at the nursing home where Mom worked. (Never, ever miss a call in bingo. Tough crowd.) For a couple weeks I was able to put my cares behind me, and be safe and secure in the family nest. Mom made nice hot meals and Dad made cinnamon rolls and hot buttered rum drinks. Looking back, it was probably just what I needed then. I was home for Christmas. The memory of that Christmas, being with Mom and Dad, is one of the brightest Christmas memories I have.

Dad was quite proud of all the firewood he had cut and put up for the winter. He had installed a wood heater to supplement the oil fired furnace in the basement. Now this would probably be called a 'hybrid home energy system' or something like that. Dad put it in to save money and to have the warmth of oak, maple and birch in the house. Some of the wood he had cut near Auntie Flo's house. He found a curious piece of wood there and saved it. It was a piece of oak, with a 2" hole bored through it. He showed that to me and remarked how odd that was. I said, not so odd, I bored that hole through a small oak tree years ago with Grandpa's wood auger. I would give anything to have that piece of wood now.

Mom was working part time at a nursing home in town, and quite proud of having this job and having earned a Nurse's Assistant certificate from the state. It had been her dream as a young woman to become a nurse, but marriage and kids and life got in the way. In retirement she somewhat realized that dream. She brought me to her job, (several times) and introduced me to her boss, her co workers, and all her patients. When she worked the overnight shift, Dad would bring his cinnamon rolls to Mom and 'the other girls' on the shift. I suspect he liked the attention.

That was the last Christmas I spent with both my Mom and Dad. Two years later, I was home again with Mom for Christmas, along with my sisters and brother, for Dad had passed away 10 days before Christmas. A sad time, but it made me appreciate the other Christmas that much more. Christmas has a way to make us happy and sad at the same time.  It's the human condition. Better to feel happy and sad than to not feel at all. Maybe it's not really sad, but rather looking back and being grateful for the years past and the memories we will carry with us forever.

The years go by, and now I'm the parent, waiting for the kids to come home for Christmas. My youngest is flying home soon, and needless to say I'm awaiting his arrival with great anticipation. I probably won't be eating malted milk balls while waiting for his plane to arrive, but maybe I'll tell him what great shape the roads are in, and try to keep one wheel on the dry track in the road.

 I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me...

Merry Christmas.

raising hilda

Several years ago, after much prodding by my Aunt Max, my cousin Jo (Max's daughter) and I raised the headstone of  great Aunt Hilda, who passed away in the early 20th century. With help from my sons and my sister,  we dug, pried, pushed, and pulled by rope to pop Hilda's stone out of the ground. We then put some gravel and dirt in the hole and re set the stone, now level with the grass, more or less. We did a fine job and Max was pleased. On that day we also poured a bit of concrete for a couple other stones and did some general clean up. Max brought enough food to feed an army, and we had a fine time. You see, in many small town cemeteries, the upkeep is pretty much do it yourself, so we did it ourselves.

Two years ago, my sons and I made a trip to the same cemetery to set my mom's stone. We carefully dug out the earth where it would be set, built a form, set the stone and poured some concrete around it. I troweled the concrete smooth, and having finished my work, I stood up and for the first time saw my parent's graves side by side. The grief I felt was crushing, and I fell to my knees and wept. My sister came to my side and comforted me. Our final act for mom and dad, not done out of obligation but rather a sense of caregiving for those who cared for us.

When I was a young boy, my parents and I would travel by car from where we lived in northern California to Minnesota to visit family. Once we arrived in Minnesota and were settled in for our visit my dad would always go to the local cemetery to see his brother Palmer's grave. Dad took me with on these trips, and back then cemeteries gave me the 'willies'. All those dead people, people I never knew, but with familiar names. Palmer was killed in World War II, very close to the end of the war in Europe. After the war, Palmer was reburied in the little country cemetery, and like so many other young men given a granite headstone. Over the years, the stone became discolored and stained by an oil can that someone had placed on it, no doubt in the course of mowing the grass one spring. The stain from the oil can spread, and every year Dad would say that the stone should be cleaned, but he never got around to it. I don't know why he didn't but I suspect one reason could be the never ending grief he felt for losing a brother he was very close to. A brother that he would not grow old with, nor share the joys of  raising children and living lives.

Last week Jo and I made the trip to northern Minnesota and did cemetery maintenance. With the help of my sister and brother in law, we raised the headstones of our great-great grandparents, our great grandfather, and cleaned the headstones for Palmer, his mother (my grandmother), and my other grandmother, the grandma my sister and I shared with Jo. With a pumice stone, clear water and some elbow grease, I was able to get Palmer's stone looking much better, and his mother's stone too. Jo used some simple green, water and a brush to clean up our grandma's stone.

Sometime during the day, Jo remarked, "our moms are proud today". I think so too.

As Jo was scrubbing our Grandma's stone, I had a flashback to when I was  10 years old. On the advice of one of their sons, my uncle "Buster", Grandma and Grandpa went to see the move True Grit. The original with John Wayne, Kim Darby and Glen Campbell, among others. Grandma and Grandpa took me along, and I will never forget sitting in between them, watching the Old Man (Wayne) charge across a mountain meadow on a horse, reins in his teeth, a Winchester lever action in one hand, pistol in the other, taking on Ned Pepper and his gang. To this day, I get a chill when I see that scene. But, I digress.

At the end of the movie we see young Mattie Ross at her family grave site with Rooster Cogburn, tending to the grave of her father who was killed at the beginning of the movie. Mattie tells Rooster that she 'finds comfort in knowing where she will spend eternity'; next to her parents and siblings, and invites Rooster to lay next to her when the time comes.

This is what I flashed back to as Grandma's stone was being scrubbed. It's a little country cemetery, where our family goes back 4 generations or so, surrounded by fields, with the little town in the distance.  I don't get the willies anymore when I visit that cemetery but rather I feel connected to those who came before me, who were born, lived lives, raised families, worked hard and now are spending eternity close to home and the people who mattered most to them. Having departed this life and moved on to the next, all that remains are their headstones and the memories they instilled into their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.  They cleared the road for us, made us possible. The least we can do is to pass those memories on, and do a little maintenance on their markers.

Max once told me, that it would be up to Jo and I to take care of the graves and markers. Two years ago, I told my sons that someday they will do this work. They understood.

Rooster did wind up laying next to Mattie for eternity.

I'd like to think that Max and Mom, the  Grandmas and Palmer were looking down and feeling proud. And feeling good that we were not shedding tears of grief, but enjoying being with family, and as our uncle Buster said, 'preserving our common heritage'.

I did, however, miss Aunt Max's macaroni salad. Almost as much as I miss her.

Earl and George

I'm the youngest of 4 kids. I came along later than the rest, by 16, 15, and 11 years. So by the time I was starting school, the others were out of the house living lives, and I was home alone with mom and dad. I kind of missed having brothers and sisters around, and it was quite lonely at times. Later in my high school years I spent a lot of time with my best friend's family, he had 2 sisters and 4 brothers. Looking back, it seems I wanted that family time that I had somehow been denied by being the last born, by a good margin. But no matter, that's the way it was, so that's what we have to work with.  As my great aunt Alma would say, '...buck up', but that is another story for another time.

My brother is 11 years older than me. When I was learning how to play dodge ball and write cursive, he was going through boot camp. When I was learning long division he was in Viet Nam. I was and still am very attached to my brother, but the reality is, for most of our lives it's been over long distance. So what we lack in quantity, we make up otherwise. As my youngest sister says, "it is what it is" . We're brothers. That says it all.

As a kid and a young teen, I spent a lot of time with my sisters and their families, they lived less than an hour away.  In addition to my sisters, I had brother in laws, which was kind of a novelty for a young kid. I was an uncle at 9. Not bad, and it required no effort on my part.

My youngest sister's husband and I spent a lot of time together. His middle name was Earl, which I thought was funny. I would call him Earl, which I suspect he kind of liked. In return, he called me George. Beats the hell out of me where he got George, that's not my middle name (that too is another story), he probably just picked it out of the air and bestowed it upon me. I liked it.  He had a real kid like sense of fun and curiosity about him, and he had the knack to make his own fun. He taught me how to bait a hook, how to skin a catfish. He showed me how to make a home made mortar out of a piece of pipe and firecrackers. Way way before Mythbusters came alone and blew stuff up on TV, we were doing that. But then again, that was before cable. He showed me how to make and fly a kite (cross sticks and box), and how to fix them after they crashed. He had motorcycles, and when I started down that path he would pick up parts for me when he and my sister would come to visit. He taught me to drive a car, if it wasn't for him I never would have gotten my license. He gave me my first set of tools, and lectured me on how to take care of them. Forty some years later, I still have some of them, prized possessions in my tool box.

When I was 14, he took me to see 'Blazing Saddles' when it came out in the theater. My first R rated movie. He laughed so hard during the movie that tears were coming down his cheeks, and days later we would recite lines from the movie and laugh all over again. It was good times. He wasn't my blood brother, but we had a good bond. We got along. He treated me like an adult. I tried to remember that lesson when my boys were growing up. My sister would kind of shake her head at our antics at times, and sometimes I suspect she thought she was raising two boys.

Eventually they had kids of their own, two girls who grew into wonderful, strong, smart women. I was lucky to spend a fair amount of time with them when they were little, and became very attached to them as well. (my nieces, all four of them, rock. So does my nephew. More blogs...) As time moved on I spent less time with them. I was growing up and jobs, cars, friends and school took up my time.

Much later in life, I found myself living close to them again. By then, my boys had come along, and they too enjoyed spending time with my sister and brother in law. The circle completes. My boys discovered his sense of being a kid, creating fun and enjoying life. I hope they will remember that and pass that on when the time comes.

Time has a nasty habit of moving on. Earl passed away some time ago, and my sister has since remarried,  to a terrific guy who makes her laugh and is very attentive to her.  A very good thing, because she deserves it. My oldest sister has been married to a great guy too for many years (we call him The Saint). I'm very lucky to have a great big brother, and two other brothers to boot. Very lucky indeed.

But years ago, there was a guy who kind of took me under his wing, and was a brother to me in every sense of the word. His secret was he treated me like an adult, while at the same time having the courage to still be a kid. I think that is a gift. An early life lesson that I will never forget.

Thanks Earl.

Saving Christmas

My dad always called him Charlie. Grandma called him Charles. But to all of us cousins he was Uncle Chuck. Chuck was larger than life, and sometimes twice as loud. On the outside he was tough as nails, could swear like a longshoreman and spoke his mind. But he treated us kids with fatherly warmth and love. He was married to my dad's youngest sister, Auntie Alice. You couldn't refer to one of them without saying Chuck n' Alice. They raised 3 boys, our cousins, and their house out in the country was a gathering place for the family, a fantastic place for kids to roam, have fun, have adventures. There were hills, trees, ravines, and a swamp. This place had Disneyland beat hands down. When all the young cousins got together it was always an adventure. The grown ups would hang around the house and the kids would roam at will; no one worried about our safety. We were allowed to be kids.

One summer we pitched some tents and camped out on the other side of the big ravine. The fun attraction that year was riding across the ravine on a converted manure bucket (if you don't know what that is, you have lived a sheltered life). Chuck had taken the manure hauler out of their barn, removed the bucket, and attached a platform. He then stretched a cable across the ravine between 2 trees, one side higher than the other. You'd pull the carrier back, jump on while someone held a rope, then they'd let go of the rope. You'd zoom across the ravine to the other side. No safety lines, no helmet, nothing between you and the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet down. (the scale as seen by a 10 year old). This was called having fun. Chuck was a draftsman, a toolmaker, and was an incredibly smart guy. And he didn't do anything small. So, when his boys wanted some fun, he would engineer some fun.

During this camp out someone thought it would be a good idea to smoke mice out of a tree. Again, if you don't know what that means, you have lived a sheltered life. We smoked some mice out of the partially hollow tree, and eventually we all went to sleep in tents. Sometime in the early morning I woke up, stuck my head out of the tent and couldn't help noticing that the tree was on fire. Engulfed. Not smoldering, not smoking. On fire. We tried to extinguish the flames, but you can't control much of a fire with the contents of a thermos. So we did the only thing we could do.

We hiked back to the house and had breakfast. While the tree burned.

Once the adults were awake they were informed about the tree. Uncle Chuck and my dad decided a burned out tree was a safety hazard, so they set about removing the hazard. They drove Chuck's little AC tractor (if you don't know what an AC is....) around and across the ravine, hooked a chain up to it, and planned to pull the tree over.

Well, that was the plan.

Except, when Chuck started yanking on the tree, the AC headed down the embankment to the edge of the ravine. Of course, all of us cousins were watching this from a safe distance and could hear my dad shouting, "jump Charlie, jump!" But Chuck stayed in the saddle, hit the brakes, and rode it out. Fortunately the chain was still hooked to the tree and the tractor, so it kept the AC and Chuck from going over the edge. The tractor came to a stop, Chuck shut it down, and climbed down.

My dad ran down the hill to Chuck. "Are you ok?" Chuck looked at him, fired up an unfiltered Chesterfield and said, "you know, I was a little scared".

An hour later Chuck dispatched the burned out tree with a few sticks of dynamite. You see, he didn't do anything small or in half measures.

Many years later my dad passed away. Five days later his dad, our grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, and Grandpa's the next. It was just a few days before Christmas and a very sad, hard time. Relatives and friends came from all over for the services. Of course, Uncle Chuck was there. Chuck had lost his beloved Alice a few years before, so he was alone. It had been several years since I had seen Chuck, and gave him  a big bear hug when I saw him. Chuck was there, being his fatherly self. He could be loud, but he also had a low voice, a kind, heartfelt voice that could melt your heart.

After Grandpa's funeral, my brother, sisters and I were at Mom's house, and Chuck came over too. We cleared off the table and played some penny poker. It was a perfect way to relax and ease the tension of some really hard days, and no one was feeling in a holiday mood. We had been playing for awhile, and in between hands Chuck looked around the table and in that low, heartfelt voice, almost breaking, he said, "...by God it's nice to be here with you kids".

You could have heard a pin drop. For at that moment, all the sorrow and sadness of the previous week seemed to fade away a bit. For a moment, the warmth and love of a man, hard as nails on the outside but possessing a true heart of gold on the inside, melted away the winter ice and cold and warmed our hearts and souls. In that moment, our Christmas was saved by Uncle Chuck.

Chuck's been gone now for several years, as are too many of that generation of the family. But everyone in the family has a favorite Chuck story. He may be gone, but he lives on in the memories of everyone he knew. Memories that can warm us on the coldest winter nights.

Merry Christmas Uncle Chuck.