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Returned to Sender

A beloved uncle's passing reminds us of how bland childhood would have been without him

By Brenda GeorgePublished 2 years ago 5 min read
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Little sister & I with Uncle Bobby, circa 1969.

No catalog of childhood memories would be complete without that one jokester of an uncle. This is ours - my mom's youngest brother, Robert, who we affectionately knew as Bobby for our entire lives. Bobby was teaching me how to thumb my nose at the camera here, while my baby sister took mental notes from her swing. Years later when it was time to teach arm-pit farts to my little nieces (you're welcome, Sis!), I went straight back to times like these, to all of our stupidly fun early-childhood memories. Bobby was in too many of those to count. But no amount would have been enough.

I remember one Sunday night from childhood. Our mom suddenly realized she was running short on change for our lunch money, or possibly for us to buy from the Scholastic pop-up store at school the next day - I no longer recall which. But Uncle Bobby happened to be there with us. He immediately emptied his pockets onto the kitchen table, then scooted all his silver coins toward Mom so we could have money. I still remember the sound they made, metal on metal, gliding across the table's surface. It was the sound of an uncle's love. (And while that seems like little that was helpful, keep in mind that mere coinage met a lot of needs back then - so it was a tremendous help.)

Because of his kindness and generosity, people often took advantage of Bobby, stealing his money, time and dignity. Some of those people even share his bloodline. And decades later, they have yet to show even a whisper of remorse. As such, so much of my own life has been spent, hoping that karma is real, and that it's vicious. Uncle Bobby would be disappointed to know that about me. That's just who he was.

Like our mother, he often bought us books when he had extra money. He never failed to promote literacy to us, or encourage our creativity. And no matter how cramped his living quarters felt throughout his life, he kept every poem & story we ever wrote him, every drawing, every card and letter we sent when he was hospitalized or sick. Those tiny mementos with their shaky block letters, Crayola artwork, pink glitter and dried paste were irreplaceable treasures in his eyes.

He was also a notorious practical joker, once convincing me that a banana pepper was filled with cream like a donut, so that I'd take a bite. I did. I was four. You can imagine how that went.

He was also the guy who bought balloons that he'd twist into animals, and candy or popcorn balls, on his way home from work. He made it like Christmas every day. That had to stop when his health eventually forced him to leave his factory job, which left him crushed.

He found new ways to entertain us then, often involving a ten-pound tape recorder and screechy little kid voices, captured on cassettes for all of eternity (or so we thought). Singing, writing and performing plays, doing comedy routines that just weren't that funny - he watched tirelessly and seemed to revel in every second. And when we accidentally ruined a cassette tape, he taught us how to salvage it with just a pencil and a can-do attitude.

Every time we visited them, Bobby goaded us into pranking his parents - our grandma & grandpa - because he knew we wouldn't get into trouble for it. (We proved him wrong a few times there, but hey - nobody wins'em all.)

For all the positivity he put out into the world, he battled a constant storm of illnesses with the courage of a Viking. And in Viking times, a lonely scribe, scratching with a forged metal stylus onto a wax tablet by candlelight, would have reverently recorded Bobby's passing yesterday into the next world. In shaky calligraphy, the record would also speak of how he was welcomed into the grand halls of Valhalla by thunderous applause.

All last night, I imagined conversations that might be had in such a place. Bobby's voice - friendly and clear, like before his cancer silenced it - would share tales of the challenges he faced. His newfound friends surrounding him at the warriors' banquet table, would listen raptly about lengthy illnesses that challenged him in the cruelest of ways. He'd talk about losing his ability to speak, to earn a living and to eat things that he loved. He'd tell them how, ultimately, it all took a dire turn from which he would not emerge victorious. And he would speak of all this without displaying a hint of self-pity. No resentment or anger for the hand he was dealt. Because again, that's just who he was. We might share many of his defining characteristics, but sadly, that is not one of them. Any one of us would be proud to possess one-tenth of his bravery.

Finally, Uncle Bobby taught us that, not only was dancing wildly to Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley records okay, it was highly recommended. I can still hear him belting Return to Sender, Don't Be Cruel, and Hound Dog at concert-hall volume, accompanied by the original songs on a monstrous floor-model stereo console.

And he had some exceptional pipes. In fact, he was so good that, had he been born in a different time or place, the entire globe might be mourning his death today.

Instead, we're grieving enough for all of you.

We love you, Uncle Bobby. Thank you for always being there for us. Rest well now.

NOTE: I originally wrote this on March 4th, when we were still reeling from our loss. It was originally intended for only family and close friends to read. But it feels wrong now, not to share my uncle's story with the rest of the world. This tribute didn't even touch on most of the things that made him such a special individual. But he was loved beyond description.

grief
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About the Creator

Brenda George

Former international trader, logistics clerk, cosmetologist, notary, EA & literacy tutor. Current volunteer, freelance writer, artist & voice actor. Future novelist & non-fiction author. I've seen some stuff.

https://brendageorge.online/

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