Greetings, Gentle Reader. I just received some news.
My Uncle George, my favourite uncle, passed away today. In many ways, he was my hero. He always had some mental problems, and Vietnam didn’t help; the drugs didn’t either. Nonetheless, through it all, he knew who he was, and was bursting with life.
When I talk about my uncle who kept monkeys? That was him.
When I talk about my uncle who got in a dirt bike accident at sixty-three years old, because he was running from his a bill collector – even though he had the money to pay him? Then he flipped the bike on an exposed root, because he was careening through the forest? And four months later – despite having broken his neck – he was fine? Uncle George.
When I talk about the time my uncle tried to buy an elephant, as to draw people into his craft-brewery?
Or about his twenty-year-old girlfriend who did naked cartwheels that Christmas? The uncle who kept my family afloat when my dad lay dying? That magnificent, batshit, generous man was my Uncle George.
The world is diminished, lesser, without him.