Uncle Gib

To begin with, Uncle Gib was not a tall man. He cleared 5 foot. Maybe. This is not the most important fact about him but it was the first thing you noticed so let's get that out of the way.

He married a very short woman, Aunt Nancy, and they had two not-tall children, a boy and a girl.

When Sean Connery left teaching to enter the ministry, his first post was the First Baptist Church of Whiny People. Aunt Nancy was the church secretary and she, one of the minority, what with not being a whiner herself, befriended Sean and Dame Judi. We were invited into Gib and Nancy's home and from the beginning we were all friends.

That first Labor Day weekend we joined them (and one other family) at the beach. I would guess it was those long days of walks on the beach that cemented DJ and Nan's friendship, long nights playing pinochle that cinched the deal for Sean and Gib. (It was important to me, too. That weekend the son, with his curly blond hair and sapphire blue eyes that twinkled with joy, became my first boyfriend. This relationship consisted largely of holding hands at church functions and long phone conversations during which we mostly breathed at each other. It lasted for 2 months but we always remained friends).

My memory is a sievelike thing, not prone to details. When I think of Gib it is like a slide show, still shots of all our times together. And there were a lot of times. Nearly every Sunday evening after church would find us a their house. I see Gib in his chair. He is listening. Sean and Nan were the loquacious ones. Gib and DJ talked less, providing counterpoint, but as is the case with such people, when they spoke it was worth paying attention.

Every Christmas eve of my high school years, and a few following, were spent with Gib's family. I remember light and warmth and laughter.

Oddly, I have no memory of them every being in our home. Surely they were at times but the clearest pictures are always at their house. It was a haven, a place where we were loved and accepted, part of the family and protected from the whiners.

Uncle Gib was very strong, a stocky, muscled man, who lifted weights. He was strictly tea total but loved his coffee. I see him in the breakfast nook, mug in front of him, crinkly eyes smiling at me.

Uncle Gib was very kind. I don't remember hearing an angry word leave his lips. He was a quiet joker. He never said it, but I think he felt badly for the lightening rod role I seemed to play. (There was a cadre of whiners who ever and always had it out for me. It was unwarranted. I was a good kid. A bit sassy, sure, but young, and otherwise a very good kid). He knew that and I don't think he liked how I was treated. There was always a smidge of sympathy behind his eyes, in the gentle way he'd hug me.

Uncle Gib drove the church bus that ferried the youth group to concert performances and meetings. He drove us on the long summer trips we'd take to work in other churches. Sean Connery always laid down the law for these trips: The bus goes north! In other words, we'd better behave or we'd go back home. But Gib, sitting in the driver's seat, was the one who enforced the rules, with firmness and jokes. If I got bored or annoyed, I'd go sit in the front seat behind him and he'd always jolly me out of my mood.

Uncle Gib was the do-er. If we went on retreat, he was one of the folks in the kitchen, making big tubs of scrambled eggs or piles of pancakes. He moved tables and chairs, helped hoist bales of newspaper from our recycling drives. But he was always there, always involved. He and Nan were sponsors for our youth group, mentors and chaperones rolled into one. I don't think they ever missed an event. They were our biggest boosters.

I only have one memory of time spent alone with Uncle Gib. That memory rolls like a movie. It was my freshman year of college and for some reason I don't recall, I needed to come home for a weekend but didn't have any money for the bus. Uncle Gib was a truck driver and his route brought him to Seattle. I went down to the docks and met him and he drove me home in his big semi-truck. It was amusing to see, this very tiny man, hoisting himself up into the driver's seat and taking expert control of that giant vehicle. We talked all the way home. Well, mostly, I talked. Uncle Gib was good with the leading questions that would set me going and the miles spun away beneath us as I chattered about life and love and education in the big city. He took me to my first truck stop cafe for lunch and so it was that I learned, first hand, one of the great truths of the universe: if a bunch of trucks are parked in front of it, you want to eat there.

Gib and Nancy were at my wedding (I think the only family wedding they missed was George Clooney's, given that it was in Texas). They met The Child when she was wee. But in my adult years, the bulk of our communication was three-way: Dame Judi telling me about them, them about me. Still, the bond was a strong one. I always and ever thought of Gib with great affection, doing what the young and callous do, thinking he'd always be there.

Uncle Gib was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago and fought the great fight. Last week, he stopped fighting. He was not afraid to die because he had a very deep faith in God. He knew he was going to a better place. He died at home, in the arms of his son, surrounded by his family.

Rest in peace, Uncle Gibby. Thanks for everything. I love you.