My Uncle Vern.

My uncle Vern passed away early Monday morning. He had been battling cancer for some time, so it is a blessing to know he suffers no more. Over the last months I was able to go and visit with him, hug and get hugs, and tell him I love him. On Sunday I said goodbye to him.

He was uncle to others, a special uncle to many even, but I claim My Uncle Vern because he, and Helen, have been such constants in my life. This week I have been thinking a lot about them, sorting through the memories. They have been at most of my birthdays and holidays. They helped celebrate my major life events and little life events.

Uncle Vern was a farmer and a carpenter. He was born and raised in these hills I write from. He farmed the home place, which is now my eldest brother’s dairy farm. In his years after moving to town, he served as the city mayor, holding a whole second career after leaving the dairy farm. In my adult years I have listened to many of Vern’s stories- stories of local history and how life was sixty or seventy years ago. Uncle Vern was a man who bridged the past and present, the old days of one room schoolhouses and rationed coffee to the modern days of big John Deere tractors and city politics.

That’s why I claim ownership to my uncle: he owns a part of my history, a part of my place here, even though he is related through marriage, not actually a blood relative. Family really doesn’t have anything to do with blood. It is time and presence that make family- and love.

Vern and Helen are my family.