I believe everyone should have an Uncle Bob. It seems most people do, actually, which is a good thing. I've been lucky enough in life to have two of them, one on each side of the family.
Recently, though, I lost one of them, my Uncle Bob Hess, from the north side of Chicago. He was a great guy, and though I haven't been able to see him or my Aunt Dottie much since I bolted Illinois for Texas and now Idaho, I'm finding that I miss him.
Uncle Bob was my closest uncle growing up. We spent all major holidays together, as well as birthdays, family milestones religious and otherwise, and every single Christmas Eve I can remember during my childhood, switching off years between his place in Chicago and ours in the suburbs. I have vivid memories of falling asleep in the car on the way home, every single year, watching the city lights slide past through the blackness outside the car windows. His daughter, my cousin Kim, spent summers with us through middle school and high school. He was the oldest of four sons; my dad the youngest.
I find it frustrating to try and fail at remembering stories or specific profound events revolving around my Uncle Bob. But then, I have no shortage of images and memories involving him, and in fact most recollections of holidays or parties have him smiling in the background. He was a presence, a happy and calm being in the room who always called me and my brothers Butch or Tiger, and we loved it. His answer to any impatient kid question of When can we open presents? or When's dinner? or When can we have dessert? was a patient "After while." That says a lot about my Uncle Bob. Nothing was so important that it couldn't wait until after the football game or after one last cup of coffee or just to wait, to wait until the extended family unit was ready to move on to the next item on the day's unspoken schedule.
I flew to Chicago last weekend for my Uncle Bob's funeral. It was wonderful to see everyone, if a bit disorienting, to be transported back from my life in Boise to the midst of all these people who I hadn't seen for so long, to suddenly be in the middle of one of these gigantic family gatherings, surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends and my Godfather (Bob's son), but to not have Uncle Bob there, the quiet patriarch at the center of it all. I'm glad I went, but I feel changed because of it. Older. And I feel more distinctly now being separated from family by miles.
My Uncle Bob was an anchor to my family and my past. He was a constant, a benevolent human being who was a truly good guy. And in a world lacking in good guys, his loss is that much more profound.
Uncle Bob, you are missed. I hope to see you again. After while.
Recently, though, I lost one of them, my Uncle Bob Hess, from the north side of Chicago. He was a great guy, and though I haven't been able to see him or my Aunt Dottie much since I bolted Illinois for Texas and now Idaho, I'm finding that I miss him.
Uncle Bob was my closest uncle growing up. We spent all major holidays together, as well as birthdays, family milestones religious and otherwise, and every single Christmas Eve I can remember during my childhood, switching off years between his place in Chicago and ours in the suburbs. I have vivid memories of falling asleep in the car on the way home, every single year, watching the city lights slide past through the blackness outside the car windows. His daughter, my cousin Kim, spent summers with us through middle school and high school. He was the oldest of four sons; my dad the youngest.
I find it frustrating to try and fail at remembering stories or specific profound events revolving around my Uncle Bob. But then, I have no shortage of images and memories involving him, and in fact most recollections of holidays or parties have him smiling in the background. He was a presence, a happy and calm being in the room who always called me and my brothers Butch or Tiger, and we loved it. His answer to any impatient kid question of When can we open presents? or When's dinner? or When can we have dessert? was a patient "After while." That says a lot about my Uncle Bob. Nothing was so important that it couldn't wait until after the football game or after one last cup of coffee or just to wait, to wait until the extended family unit was ready to move on to the next item on the day's unspoken schedule.
I flew to Chicago last weekend for my Uncle Bob's funeral. It was wonderful to see everyone, if a bit disorienting, to be transported back from my life in Boise to the midst of all these people who I hadn't seen for so long, to suddenly be in the middle of one of these gigantic family gatherings, surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends and my Godfather (Bob's son), but to not have Uncle Bob there, the quiet patriarch at the center of it all. I'm glad I went, but I feel changed because of it. Older. And I feel more distinctly now being separated from family by miles.
My Uncle Bob was an anchor to my family and my past. He was a constant, a benevolent human being who was a truly good guy. And in a world lacking in good guys, his loss is that much more profound.
Uncle Bob, you are missed. I hope to see you again. After while.
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