Seagull

It was a long-running joke in our family. Uncle Rick claimed that, as a baby, I hated him. I would cry the moment he picked me up and would only tolerate him when he was drunk.

Still...

He put me on his motorcycle when I was three. I blame him for my love of the sound of Harleys.

When we moved back to Washington from Missouri, we lived with Uncle Rick and Aunt Cheryl for a bit. I remember that he was big, loud, could imitate Donald Duck, was a neat freak and listened to The Eagles.

I instantly dubbed The Eagles as "hippie" music. As if that was a bad thing. I remember listening to it, laying on my back and staring at a tapestry on the wall. Bored out of my ten-year-old mind. It wasn't until years later that I came to understand what a wonderful band they were.

He drew birds. Not dry, technically correct birds. He drew outlandish cartoon birds with long legs, wild hair and smart mouths...er...beaks. We loved watching him draw. I always wondered how they never found their way into the comics.

His nickname was "Seagull". I never asked why...

When I was a bit older, my parents teased him about being an old hippie. My sisters and I spent weeks at a time at their house - two of us at a time, never all four at once - picking fresh veggies from his oh-so-organized garden. The garden was a wonder to me. After years of my parents "toss the seeds and let it all grow into a jungle" method of gardening, Uncle Rick's plotted, organized land was a balm to my Virgo sensibilities.

We descended on their home a couple weekends a month, a tribe of loud, unruly ruffians invading their quiet middle-class life. We spent hours in the playhouse he'd built with our cousin. Sitting on the ledges, sun streaming through the Plexiglas windows, playing and talking while the adults visited.

Uncle Rick turned basketball and softball games into a full-contact sport, not minding that most of the players were little girls.

He went fishing with my dad for salmon, always just missing the "big one". I can still picture him, leaning against the counter, goofy grin on his face while he told his fish story.

When I got my first car - an old beat-up VW bug, Uncle Rick banged out the dents while Dad got it in running condition.

When I moved to California, Dad and Uncle Rick took turns driving a truck full the things a teenage girl thought important. We never stayed at hotels when we made long trips, preferring to push on. On that trip, I slept in the back seat of the cab and Dad and Uncle Rick slept sitting up. Dad's snores were so loud that I awoke to Rick sleeping on the hood of the truck.

When I got married, I was so excited to have Rick and Cheryl make the trek down with Charlie in tow. They looked young, carefree and so very much in love.

My "Something Borrowed" was the necklace he gave my aunt after she had Charlie.

Uncle Rick claimed that, as a baby, I hated him. I would cry the moment he picked me up and would only tolerate him when he was drunk.

He was wrong. I've loved him as long as I've been alive. I will miss him now that he's gone.

But he was pretty cool when he was drinking.