My dad had only one sibling, a brother, James, who died at 42 leaving 3 small children and my Aunt Jackie. I remember standing in the laundry room when my dad told me. I gave him a hug. He had just been to tell his mom that her youngest child had died suddenly. It almost killed him to do so. I think it was the only time I saw my dad cry.
I asked my cousins, who always called my dad Unk, if they had any stories about my dad they might want to share. Tim, the fabulous middle child (ahem), who I adore adore adore, tells a story of his last visit with my dad. I won’t change his words. They are perfect.
In September 2013, I took my two daughters, Fiona and Violet, to visit Unk in his nursing home. I had just completed a rainy and cold 5-day canoe trip with the girls (ages 6 and 3) in Algonquin.
During our visit, Unk was basically unresponsive. He sat in his wheelchair and ate a few cookies. We took his wheelchair out to the courtyard, as it was finally a sunny and bright Fall day. The girls ran around the courtyard as I sat with Unk. I talked a little about my life, patted his knee, and wondered if I was talking to the sky. Fiona was getting a little bored with our visit, as a 6-year-old might do, and wanted to play chase around the courtyard. I was sitting quietly with Unk, while Judy and Violet got some tea and cookies. After Fiona asked me to chase her around for the seventh time, I asked Unk:
Should I sit here with you for a little while longer, or get Fiona?
He looked at me, and in a voice clear as a bell, said:
Get ‘er.
It is how Unk approached so much of life, at least from the vantage point of a nephew thousands of miles away. It was a special visit and his final (and only) words to me sum up so much of the way I think of him.