Uncle Allan
My Uncle Allan as a child, on the left in this photo. My grandma's pregnant with my mom here.
One of my favorite uncles, Allan Greist, died January 6th. There's an informal service at his home on Sunday, and I can't go because my husband's dad, who lives in Las Vegas, is going into hospice and we have to travel there to be with him. Ugh. Too much emotional stuff to come back to (we found all this out on a layover trying to get home from Europe). Plus I'm all hopped up on fertility hormones, which doesn't help.
I cried yesterday, for my uncle and for me, but mostly for my dear aunt and cousin, who have to go through the grief left in the wake of this death. I wish they didn't have to go through it. I wish no one had to go through it.
My cousin asked me to write something that she could read at the service. I thought I'd share what I wrote here:
"My Uncle Allan was my mom’s oldest brother, and I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in my life. We lived two hours apart: us in the Colorado mountains, he and his family in Colorado Springs, in my mind the big city. Our families got together frequently, took turns spending weekends at each other’s houses. And always, always, always: Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas.
"Uncle Allan: such an upbeat, calming, serene presence. I never saw him get angry or frustrated. He took an interest in me—in all us kids. He taught me how to spit watermelon seeds, so I’d have a chance at winning the contest he hosted each summer. He showed me the sunflowers five times bigger than me that he grew in his lush backyard. He taught me how to develop film in his basement dark room, let me loose in there when I was still young enough to do some serious damage. He said, “Of course! Read anything you want,” when I asked him about the wall of books in his living room, and I subsequently spent many happy afternoons curled up in the swivel chair beside them.
"He carved turkeys with finesse and flair all those holidays, all the while telling puns that were over my head as a child, but that made the adults groan. He made me laugh by just acting like he was going to tickle me; he never actually had to do it. And the railroad—he let my brothers run his model railroad trains, a whole portion of the basement with life-like buildings set up on a platform that you could duck under to get into the open middle. I liked being in the center of that world, a place where everything was in order, nothing ever went wrong.
"One of my clearest and best memories happened on a camping trip, a family reunion, a place called Cottonwood. I was six, plus or minus. We went for a hike, a half-dozen of us. We came to a river, a thick, felled evergreen the bridge across. The tree probably wasn’t as high above the water as I remember, and the river probably wasn’t as huge or as swift, but regardless: none of us kids were traversing on our own. My uncle scooped me up, swung me onto his shoulders, walked steadily across, not looking down, footing sure even though the tree was rounded and barky and a fall could have had dire consequences. He set me down safe, where the dirt path started again.
"We all need people to help us across the rivers in our lives, both real and metaphorical. My Uncle Allan helped me. I am so very lucky to have had such a kind, caring, gentle, wise, and loving presence in my life. My dear uncle: Godspeed and God bless.
Love,
Kristen"
