My sister Bonnie put it perfectly. He had a few blind spots—oh, don’t we all—but he had such a big heart! And we all knew, his nieces and nephews—that he loved us all. He could you not know that when as soon as Uncle Bud arrived, you’d be immediately enveloped in his huge bear hug. Nothing half-hearted or tepid about our Uncle Bud’s hugs—little kids just disappeared inside them, and big kids too! (And even, as we later learned, grown-ups as well!)
He was as handsome an uncle as any young niece could dream of—shock of blond hair, very blue eyes, tall and trim, and with a marvelous capacity for fun. I’m sure the box event was Uncle Bud’s idea. We were all at Grandma and Grandpa’s big blue Victorian house in the little town of Rushville, Illinois. I was the doyenne of the cousins—twelve years old. Uncle Bud had a movie camera—perhaps he’d just gotten it. He put a cardboard box in the back yard and called all us kids to come, and line up in order of age. I was first and he had me get in the box so I scrunched myself inside until I couldn’t be seen. Then, he turned on his camera and told me to come out, and I crawled out. He stopped the camera, called the next kid—my brother Angus—filmed him coming out, and so on and so on, until he’d filmed all the kids. In the end, he had a hilarious movie showing all the cousins—there must have been ten to fifteen of us—emerging out of the same tiny box, film that of course became a classic in our family, and which we all delighted in seeing year after year.
But it was the summer when I was sixteen that I really got to know my Uncle Bud, when I went back to Illinois alone to visit my grandparents and get re-acquainted with all my relatives there. Uncle Bud was an artist and he took me to his art studio one day and showed me off to all his colleagues, and then signed a drawing for me, “to my favorite niece” (yes, we were all his favorite nieces, his favorite nephews!), drawing I have preciously saved all these years. He and his younger brother, my uncle Dick, kidded and teased me all that long and happy summer, at picnics, family dinners in their homes or at Grandma and Grandpa’s big house, hikes, visits to Lincoln sites. How old were they then—mid-thirties perhaps—so young themselves! My mother’s two younger brothers, my handsome, my charming uncles with whom I was head over heels in love that summer.
There is something very special about being an aunt or an uncle. I know this now from experience, I’m mother to none but aunt to many. We have all the fun, we aunts and uncles. No responsibilities, no need to discipline or punish, no expectations that might not be fulfilled, we come in and out of our nephews and nieces lives with big bear hugs, bearing gifts for our favorites (they are all our favorites), our homes are open to them all, but they never stay too long nor do we, so we never tire of each other or get on each other’s nerves.
I went to live in Paris in my late twenties and so I didn’t see my uncle Bud very often after that, only every couple of years when I would return to Illinois to see my grandmother. Once, he came with his wife Barbara to Paris and we had a wonderful time going around together, and I have a picture of us standing together at the bottom of the stairway on our street, rue Muller, which leads up the hill to Sacré Coeur, arms around each other, smiling gaily for the camera. Everything was pleasure for my uncle Bud—he was a half-full glass kind of guy, he never saw it as half-empty.
I saw him again the summer before last—just one evening, at a family gathering that my aunt Mary had quickly put together on learning we were coming. He was leaving the next day for Florida, it was rather miraculous that we’d arrived just the day before, and so could manage to see each other. His sister—my mother—had been gone more than fifteen years by then, and my youngest uncle Dick had died just two years before. But here came my Uncle Bud, arriving early to see us, smiling that wonderful infectious smile of his, and here I was again being enveloped in that warm familiar comforting bear hug which always transported me right back to my childhood.
There was a lot of family to see that night, and of course I wanted to see and talk to everyone, but I remember a special yearning to stay close to my uncle Bud. For the first time ever, he seemed vulnerable to time. And for the first time ever, I felt sad seeing him, instead of the usual joy. I didn’t really want to let him go, and I remember holding tightly onto his arm, and walking him outside of the house when it was finally time, and at his car still having more to say, trying to keep him there with a few more words, and a few more. But he was tired, he had to be getting home, and we were leaving ourselves the next morning. There was no putting it off. The farewell hug. So long, Sweetie. There I was, enveloped again in that special place, my Uncle Bud’s arms, his favorite niece (all of us were!), just hating to be let go of, just hating to let him go
But we always have to go, and let go, sooner or later. And my uncle Bud, though eternally young to us, had somehow grown old too. Not in spirit but he was having trouble with an eye, his walk was less steady, he had emphysema. And then, eight months ago, a grave cancer was diagnosed. He refused treatment—and spent his last months making collages of his art work for all his friends and family, making his adieux to all of us who loved him, assuring us that he’d lived a long and happy life and had no regrets, sending us all through the mail and through phone calls his affectionate farewell hugs.
Lover of life, our uncle Bud, helping reconcile us to his death. (Though I’m not a bit, no, not a bit reconciled to it.)
He was the best, the very best of uncles. Oh how I should like just one more time to be that little niece blissfully being smothered in her Uncle Bud’s great big bear hug and hearing in my muffled ear, his joyful “Hello Sweetie!”
He was as handsome an uncle as any young niece could dream of—shock of blond hair, very blue eyes, tall and trim, and with a marvelous capacity for fun. I’m sure the box event was Uncle Bud’s idea. We were all at Grandma and Grandpa’s big blue Victorian house in the little town of Rushville, Illinois. I was the doyenne of the cousins—twelve years old. Uncle Bud had a movie camera—perhaps he’d just gotten it. He put a cardboard box in the back yard and called all us kids to come, and line up in order of age. I was first and he had me get in the box so I scrunched myself inside until I couldn’t be seen. Then, he turned on his camera and told me to come out, and I crawled out. He stopped the camera, called the next kid—my brother Angus—filmed him coming out, and so on and so on, until he’d filmed all the kids. In the end, he had a hilarious movie showing all the cousins—there must have been ten to fifteen of us—emerging out of the same tiny box, film that of course became a classic in our family, and which we all delighted in seeing year after year.
But it was the summer when I was sixteen that I really got to know my Uncle Bud, when I went back to Illinois alone to visit my grandparents and get re-acquainted with all my relatives there. Uncle Bud was an artist and he took me to his art studio one day and showed me off to all his colleagues, and then signed a drawing for me, “to my favorite niece” (yes, we were all his favorite nieces, his favorite nephews!), drawing I have preciously saved all these years. He and his younger brother, my uncle Dick, kidded and teased me all that long and happy summer, at picnics, family dinners in their homes or at Grandma and Grandpa’s big house, hikes, visits to Lincoln sites. How old were they then—mid-thirties perhaps—so young themselves! My mother’s two younger brothers, my handsome, my charming uncles with whom I was head over heels in love that summer.
There is something very special about being an aunt or an uncle. I know this now from experience, I’m mother to none but aunt to many. We have all the fun, we aunts and uncles. No responsibilities, no need to discipline or punish, no expectations that might not be fulfilled, we come in and out of our nephews and nieces lives with big bear hugs, bearing gifts for our favorites (they are all our favorites), our homes are open to them all, but they never stay too long nor do we, so we never tire of each other or get on each other’s nerves.
I went to live in Paris in my late twenties and so I didn’t see my uncle Bud very often after that, only every couple of years when I would return to Illinois to see my grandmother. Once, he came with his wife Barbara to Paris and we had a wonderful time going around together, and I have a picture of us standing together at the bottom of the stairway on our street, rue Muller, which leads up the hill to Sacré Coeur, arms around each other, smiling gaily for the camera. Everything was pleasure for my uncle Bud—he was a half-full glass kind of guy, he never saw it as half-empty.
I saw him again the summer before last—just one evening, at a family gathering that my aunt Mary had quickly put together on learning we were coming. He was leaving the next day for Florida, it was rather miraculous that we’d arrived just the day before, and so could manage to see each other. His sister—my mother—had been gone more than fifteen years by then, and my youngest uncle Dick had died just two years before. But here came my Uncle Bud, arriving early to see us, smiling that wonderful infectious smile of his, and here I was again being enveloped in that warm familiar comforting bear hug which always transported me right back to my childhood.
There was a lot of family to see that night, and of course I wanted to see and talk to everyone, but I remember a special yearning to stay close to my uncle Bud. For the first time ever, he seemed vulnerable to time. And for the first time ever, I felt sad seeing him, instead of the usual joy. I didn’t really want to let him go, and I remember holding tightly onto his arm, and walking him outside of the house when it was finally time, and at his car still having more to say, trying to keep him there with a few more words, and a few more. But he was tired, he had to be getting home, and we were leaving ourselves the next morning. There was no putting it off. The farewell hug. So long, Sweetie. There I was, enveloped again in that special place, my Uncle Bud’s arms, his favorite niece (all of us were!), just hating to be let go of, just hating to let him go
But we always have to go, and let go, sooner or later. And my uncle Bud, though eternally young to us, had somehow grown old too. Not in spirit but he was having trouble with an eye, his walk was less steady, he had emphysema. And then, eight months ago, a grave cancer was diagnosed. He refused treatment—and spent his last months making collages of his art work for all his friends and family, making his adieux to all of us who loved him, assuring us that he’d lived a long and happy life and had no regrets, sending us all through the mail and through phone calls his affectionate farewell hugs.
Lover of life, our uncle Bud, helping reconcile us to his death. (Though I’m not a bit, no, not a bit reconciled to it.)
He was the best, the very best of uncles. Oh how I should like just one more time to be that little niece blissfully being smothered in her Uncle Bud’s great big bear hug and hearing in my muffled ear, his joyful “Hello Sweetie!”
