Last Wednesday I received a call from my sister. She was clearly shaken and after babbling on for a bit, she told me that “Uncle Douglas died”. Apparently she had received an “email”from a first cousin stating his father died. “Uncle who?”, I asked.
What sane person would email his first cousin about the death of a father. Perhaps the phone has become to impersonable?
I used to play with my cousins occasionally in a park across the street from there home as a child. I was ten and rode my bike across the tracks and up the tallest hill in town. Sundays were the best days! The park was alive with dozens of kids playing football or baseball for hours.
Around 5, they’d get a call in for dinner and would usually drag me along for a hotdog and a drink. My dear Uncle had a long picnic table full of food and handed each of his children a frank on a toasted roll. When it came to me, I’d hold my plate up and inevitably hear the words, “We’re about to have dinner now, we should be done in an hour”. I’d usually turn and begin pedaling home hearing my Aunt whisper “That was rude, Douglas. What is wrong with you?”
My tears would dry by the bottom of the hill.
It’s now Thursday, but twenty years later. He’s now ashes in an urn. The coldest man alive is a barbequed memory himself. I think I’ll sign my name to some e-Flowers and fire up my own grill in his memory, however, I think I’ll have a steak.
justdoit29 