Uncle Billy

Uncle Billy had a deep voice; I can still hear the way he said our names, the different tones he had depending on the topic, the laughter that snuck in at the end of his comments often – a dry sense of humor and sarcasm with a knowing side eye when he questioned something. Dogs always responded immediately to his voice, and he and Kathy always had multiple underfoot. Uncle Billy wasn’t a talker, but when he did, he’d thought about it and meant whatever it was he decided to offer up out loud.

My best friend described him as always in a white tank undershirt, open flannel, jeans – either long or cut-off, “excellent taste in hats,” and a gruff exterior with a heart of gold. That pretty much sums him up.

Uncle Billy carried the smell of workshop and smoke breaks and coffee. He had wild wooly Eccles eyebrows, and the same eyes as my dad, a little green and a lot of lashes, and he could say a whole lot of what he was thinking just by looking at you. He loved the mountains and camping. Sometimes he would meet us at the beach, and those were our favorite days as kids. I remember him ‘saving me’ from a jellyfish one year, and writing a story about it in maybe second-grade. “Uncle Billy, my hero.”

I don’t ever remember a time not loving Uncle Billy. I truly adored him even as a little one; mom said I was unusually drawn to him always. I loved his long ponytail, his no-nonsense responses when we tried to test him, his tease, and his laugh. All of the cousins flocked around him as the crew got older especially. He let us ride in his top-down wrangler, and even let Ty and Ben borrow it, which is a fantastic story for later. I loved stories of him, Dad, Marie, and David growing up like a wild neighborhood posse, playing bike tag and sending off bottle rockets from the roof. My brothers and I knew the teen and adult struggles he’d faced and overcome with a quiet resilience and strength and determination. We were never under a pretense that Uncle Billy was perfect. He was just always exactly who he was. No frills. No pretending. Just Uncle Billy.

He cut his hair short once around when he and Kathy met; I saw him walking up to Grandma’s and wondered who this clean-shaven stranger was. As a total kid romantic, I was thrilled when he told us about his girlfriend. “Uncle Billy, are you in LOVE?” I asked. “I sure am, Ms. Caaaarly,” he said to my nosy young self, with a grin I can still see so easily, the grin he always flashed after a fun truth bomb. How lucky we were that his love would be our aunt, who’d wrap us into her life like we’d always been there with crafts, and cards, and one-syllable-names and constant love. Billy brought us Kathy.

At Grandma’s, he always played croquet with us, and nearly always won; we knew: don’t expect Uncle Billy to take it easy on you – usually the opposite. Ok, always the opposite. He had a way of sizing up people; you had to earn his respect. He loved a hard worker.

Uncle Billy is a mug of coffee, legs crossed while he took his time to enjoy a conversation or quiet – the latter being his typical preference. Uncle Billy is a rose garden, different colors and beautiful blooms – Grandad’s touch. He is an evergreen shade of green. Uncle Billy is quiet wisdom, a scarred road, and a simple, honest, straight-forward way of living.

After we had kids, he started coming to the farmhouse regularly; being there seemed to put an extra bounce in his step. Our children Ioved seeing Uncle Billy; they’d cheer when he and Kathy pulled up. I still remember us looking up and seeing him riding off one time, without a world to anyone, down the road on a beach cruiser, like a kid catching some freedom in the fresh air.
Sometimes, we’d be working on some mess or issue, and he’d walk up – never quickly, always a slow, steady gait – and he’d find a way to say something funny, something sarcastic, and something helpful, all wrapped up into one sentence.

He hated being in pictures. I don’t think he ever texted. He was never showy; hated anyone making a fuss, much less over him. He was stubborn. He was serious and a night owl. He loved a good meal; loved a good steak. I didn’t agree with everything Billy thought. That was okay. Uncle Billy was smart as heck; he studied physics in college, owned his hardwood floor business in which customers loved him and his amazing work, and to me is the epitome of blue-collar brilliance.

He always asked us about our lives. He always encouraged us. He gave great hugs.

He was a total introvert married to a total extrovert, and she was the love of his life. His love and dedication to Kathy was as steadfast and intentional and full of his whole being.

When Grandma was nearing the end of her cancer journey, he was her caretaker – I remember Aunt Kathy saying how gentle he was as he helped her, especially in those final days. Uncle Billy was gruff on the outside, but a total soft, gentle soul who cared for those he loved so deeply.

And the wood working. I loved him and Dad talking shop and types of wood and saws and processes I only half paid attention to, but listened to anyway if I was helping them unload some piles of wood or whatever they were up to. When I got married 14 years ago, Uncle Billy made the most beautiful in-laid wood art – a huge ying and yang of dolphins with light and dark wood – with a cross stitch from Kathy framed in the middle, and now I walk by it and touch the surface, knowing how much time and talent and love he put into it. How lucky I was to have a place in his heart.

Uncle Billy always had honest words to share to help someone when they were in a low or dark place, a subtle light and truth that gave folks something to hang on to in rough times.

I remember getting a card from him after Abram died – a lot for his usual way of communicating. It meant so much to me. He was full of love, and he gave it to us, especially when we needed it.

I’m grateful for his life. It was a beautiful one. Imperfect. But beautiful.

Right now, he’d be saying “Now Carly….don’t go posting this.” I can hear it.

Well, sorry Uncle Billy. Sometimes uncles are far-off people that you see every once and while at family reunions. And sometimes, uncles are so special to you; they are a part of you.

Cancer sucks. It is cruel and it is heartbreaking.

I will always wish for more time with you. I will always feel a hole where you should still be, standing with your cup of coffee and flannel shirt and bandana. And I will always be so incredibly thankful that you were our Uncle Billy. I know you will find your ways to be with us. I’ll be waiting with gratitude when you do.

As you wrote on your card after Abram passed, “Words are inadequate. Love is what binds us and saves us.” You said more, but I’ll keep those words on the page you wrote them, as you meant them to be. They were a comfort then, and they are a comfort now.

Love is what binds us and saves us. I miss you. Love ya Uncle Billy, always.