More of It, Hopefully Not Morbidly

I was a nomad as a younger being, first when my family moved every few years for my father's work, but then later on my own. I went where life led me and would have to think hard to remember how many times I've driven across the country. There's no way I could recall how many times I've flown. But that rootless lifestyle allowed me many experiences, meeting people, seeing things, just experiencing. Like anything else, it had its upsides and its downsides. One becomes adaptable, which can be very good. A certain elasticity in perspective and in the way one chooses to be seldom hurts.

But today I recall a visit to my grandmother as I was relocating from California to New Hampshire. She was in Texas then and I hadn't seen her in a long time. We'd actually begun corresponding and she wrote great letters. I got to see sides of her I hadn't known as a boy and she wasn't ginger in her words.

At that point I'd been a musician professionally for a few years, having dropped out of college to go to music school. To the chagrin of many, I never graduated there either simply because I'd opted not to take any of my tests. I bring this up because she was the first member of my family who asked me to perform. My parents and my brother had heard me practice for years (sorry, guys!) but none of them had heard me in a band or asked me to play a song. She set out some snacks while I hauled in my amp and ran through my warm-ups. It's something I'll never forget.

What was unique about that visit, though, was a conversation we had over dinner. This was in the early 90's, nearly 20 years after her husband had died. I didn't -- and don't -- have many memories of my grandfather but have been told a lot about him. I remember his height, his eyes and his smile, but I don't remember his voice or anything in particular he said. She, in the years since, had never been with anyone else as far as I knew. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked her about it.

"Oh, I've been out with a couple of men but I'm still in love with Mac. Never stopped. And I talk to him all the time."

"Really?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Of course. Just because he's dead doesn't change that."

It's been almost 25 years since that exchange and it continues to resonate. I'm sharing this now because my uncle, one of the few members of my small family, died yesterday. The brain cancer was inoperable but it was complications of pneumonia that did him in. Even so, the suddenness of it took me off guard. I was hoping to visit this summer.

Rory was a bigger than life character, an Irishman who'd played rugby professionally and had one of the quickest wits I've ever known. After the cancer was pulled out of his skull the first time, there was a shift in his perspective (of course) and he went from a wisecracking scoundrel to a positive and concerned individual. Always a great storyteller. An ineffably sweet soul.

As the news hit me yesterday I thought about how long it's been since we'd seen one another. Through a bizarre set of circumstances I'd missed his wedding to my aunt, even though my family had flown cross country to be there for it and I was slated to read at the ceremony. While I still wince at this and it still stings that I wasn't there for one of the biggest days in their life, he never once mentioned it. And he loved to tease. Lovingly. Always lovingly, but he adored teasing. Of all the members of my family, both by blood and marriage, he knew more about my nature than most. And he was the first to defend me when people spoke ill of me.

So am I sad? I'm gutted. Leveled. My first thoughts after the news were all the things I wouldn't be able to say or hear anymore. I thought, like an ass, of myself. It's human, I know, but it's ridiculous. Has his impact on my life been diminished? Have his words been taken from me? Are all those stories gone?

No. Absolutely not. He is still larger than life. In fact, now that he's slipped its bonds he's truly larger than life. I feel like crying but I'm smiling as I can hear his cadence and that little pause while he waited for me to catch up with what he'd just said, seeing if I would laugh and pushing on before I had the chance. This was a man who believed life was for enjoying and that we're all here to learn and support one another, someone for whom family was probably more precious than anything. He was a spectacular friend and a cherished husband.

As I sit before this screen, the early stages of grief creeping over me, I recall my grandmother's words and those of the poet Henry Scott-Holland. Rather than blather further I'll simply leave you with someone else's eloquence.

Love the ones in your life, even when life leaves them.