Monday, September 29, 2025
The last time I saw Uncle Bud was in Florida, waiting for my mom—his sister Nancy—to get ready so we could go out to eat. She’s usually eager and on-time, but not this time. While we waited, Uncle Bud and I pulled up chairs in the driveway. It was a cold Florida day, but the sun was out, and it felt so good to sit in its warmth.
That pause turned into something precious: rare one-on-one time. I remember how much I enjoyed being with him—his wit, his clarity, his gentle humor. He had such patience with Nancy, and it was endearing to witness. We talked, laughed, and simply sat together, soaking in the light and each other’s company.
He began sharing stories about our family’s genealogy—names, places, connections I’d never heard before. I ran inside to grab paper and took notes as fast as I could. Who would’ve guessed we have relatives from Alsace-Lorraine and the northernmost island in Scotland? He carried so much history in him, and that day, he passed some of it on to me.
Later, in phone calls, on speaker phone my partner was struck by how clear and sharp-minded Uncle Bud was for his age. He could recall childhood stories with vivid detail—moments, names, feelings. My partner was so enamored that he’d prompt me to call Uncle Bud more often, just to hear more of his stories. Uncle Bud had a way of making memory feel alive.
Since that day, I’ve felt inspired to learn more about our family’s history. I’ve dreamed of visiting those places he spoke about—walking the land in Alsace-Lorraine, standing on that northernmost island in Scotland. I still might do it. That spark he lit in me hasn’t gone out.
That afternoon in the sun was a quiet gift—sunlight, stories, and the kind of presence that stays with you. I carry it with me as one of my favorite memories of him.
