Grumpy Uncle Rob

 

    Some people are born with the temperament of a golden retriever- all soft eyes, tail wags, and an insatiable need to please. 

    Uncle Rob? He showed up in life more like a porcupine in steel toe boots, sturdy, loud, hilarious, a little intimidating, and somehow still the one of the coolest humans, ever. 

    This is a tribute to a man that's very much alive- and, despite a slowing body and increasingly prickly exterior, still sharp as hell and loved beyond measure. This is not a eulogy. This is a living love letter to a man who wouldn't know subtly if it smacked him across the ass with a salmon rod. 

                                                          A LEGEND ENTERS

    I met Uncle Rob when I was 9 years old. He lived in our basement suite of our house in Burnaby, and to be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to make of him at first. He had a big energy, a contagious laugh and a general "don't mess with me unless you want to get roasted" look on his face, 99% of the time. But it didn't take long before I knew, this man was someone special. 

    He had started dating my Aunty Kelley. I remember peeking out the front window one evening and catching a moment I'll never forget. They were on the front lawn, totally unaware of my spying, slow dancing to Elton John's "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues". Aunty Kelley was wearing this beautiful new coat Rob had bought her, she looked radiant. The two of them were completely lost in each other. It was the first time I ever saw what real love looked like. Not the cheesy scripted kind- the real, messy, consuming, beautiful kind. 

    They got married not long after. Uncle Rob welcomed not just Aunty Kelley, but her young son as well. Then came two more; a beautiful blended family with a dad at the center who might've been growly on the outside, but who radiated devotion, loyalty and love in ways that didn't need to be said out loud. 

                                                             FAMILY MAN, CHAOS KING

     Uncle Rob didn't just attend family gatherings: he engineered them. The man was a chaos conductor, a champion of all things mischievous, and the reigning king of the under ground pig roast. 

     Take for example, the infamous wet T-shirt contest incident. He lined up all the Aunties and my Grandma Betty for what they thought was a sweet family photo. As they posed, he soaked their chest's with water. The shrieking, the gasping, the laughter- it echoed through the backyard and into family lore forever.  And, there's not a damn soul in the family who wouldn't crack up retelling it. 

     Same party- he sets up a big metal tub for apple bobbing. Aunty Janice, ever the fearless sport, steps up. The only rule: blindfolds on. So she does. What she doesn't know is that the moment her blindfold went on, Uncle Rob yanked all the apples out. She bobbed frantically for what felt like an eternity, face-first into water, trying to find the apples that were not in there. We were doubled over in hysterics, unable to breathe. It was priceless. He didn't just make memories, he made legendary ones. 

     He would stay up late with Grandma Betty after those gatherings, just the two of them in the glow of Patsy Cline cranked on the stereo. They'd talk, laugh and dance long after everyone else had gone home or passed out. There was a softness that snuck out when no one was watching, like the part of the ocean that glimmers only when the tide pulls back. 

     And yet, don't get it twisted. He'd give us shit when we needed it. If we were being brats, disrespecting our mom, or acting like little jerks, Uncle Rob didn't hesitate to light a fire under our asses. But even his scoldings came wrapped in a weird kind of love; the kind that made you want to be better, not because you were afraid, but because you didn't want to disappoint him. 

                                                

                                                         THE GRUMPY GOLD STANDARD

     There's no "Uncle Rob light." He doesn't do things halfway, He's a boob and an ass kind of guy, and takes unmerciful pride in his calendar's. Yes, 'those' calendars, the kind that used to hang in garages and make many women roll their eyes so hard they nearly dislocated. 

     Classic Rob.

     But underneath the cheekiness is a man who has always welcomed our side of the family with open arms; even when his arms were crossed and his brow was furrowed. He never made us feel like outsiders. He made us feel like blood. 

     He's the kind of man who'd give you the shirt off his back, then tell you to stop being a little shit while he's at it.

      When he gave me one of his prized salmon rods, I knew it wasn't just a fishing tool. It was a gesture. A sacred offering. That rod, to this day, is one of my most cherished possessions. Because it wasn't just about fish, it was about trust, and legacy, and him saying, in his Rob-ish way, "You matter to me." 

      He's always been an animal lover, especially dogs. Their house has never been without one. On a bookshelf in their home, there's a quiet, little display of the ashes from four of their past dogs: their babies, each remembered and honored. For a man so famously prickly, he is soft as hell where it counts.

     His right hand man? Rico. A tiny, ancient , blind, deaf chihuahua who still manages to eat like a linebacker. Rico and Rob are best buds. That dog cries when Rob leaves. They nap together, eat together, exist in tandem. Honestly, I'm not convinced they aren't telepathically bonded. If you want to see my Uncles entire hardened exterior melt like butter on a skillet, just look at him with that dog. 

                                                        THE YEARS WEREN'T GENTLE

      Life, for all its glory, hasn't been kind to Uncle Rob's body. In his prime, he was an avid hunter and fisherman, he lived for the wilderness, the stillness of a lake, the crack of a gun shot through the tall tree's. Their home is covered in photos from those days. Him, arms slung around buddies, kids, and freshly caught fish. Camouflage hats. Big grins. You can almost hear the gravelly laughter and smell the firewood.

      He and Aunty Kelley even owned a fish market for awhile. And they thrived. He was in his element- strong, steady, proudly elbow-deep in the mess of it all. But like many small businesses, the cost and time eventually became to much. Still, I know that time will live golden in their memories. 

     Now, in his early 70's, Uncle battles multiple sclerosis, heart problems, and other health issues that chip away at his independence daily. And let me tell you, watching a vibrant man lose his abilities without his consent is fucking brutal. 

      He doesn't talk about it much. He's not one to wallow or get poetic. But I see it. I feel it. I know what's been stolen from him. His body has slowed, but spirit- stubborn, hilarious, defiant, still burns hot.

      And yes, he's gotten pricklier with age. But shit, wouldn't you?

                                                         LEGACY, LAUGHTER, AND LOVE

       He's still loyal to the BC Lions and Vancouver Canucks, which says something about his character, honestly, because that kind of emotional investment takes endurance, patience and a lot of alcohol. 

       I am honored, grateful and genuinely privileged to be his niece. He has shaped so much of who I am. He taught me that love, doesn't always come in hugs and Hallmark cards. Sometimes it comes in practical jokes, in long rants, in sitting quietly at 2am listening to old country songs. 

      After I gave my speech at Uncle Dennis' funeral, Rob's brother-in-law, he came up to me with tears in his eyes. He placed his hands on my shoulders, looked at me dead in the eye, and said "When I die, will you do that for me?" I squeezed him hard and nodded. That was the first and only time I've seen my Uncle cry. 

      He slowed down now, but make no mistake, he's still a legend. His footsteps ringing through our families memories. His laugh rolls through rooms. His love, though rarely spoken, is deeply felt. 

     Yes, he's grumpy. Yes, he's crusty. But he is ours. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

     Although, my Aunty Kelley will most likely call bullshit on that. 

                                                             FINAL WORD

     If you take anything from this story, let it be this; LOVE THE PRICKLY PEOPLE! The loud ones. The ones who don't do hugs or small talk. The ones with gritted teeth, sharp wit, and hearts so big they can't show it without cracking open. 

      Uncle Rob is one of the best men I've ever known, not because he tried to be perfect, but because he was relentlessly, unapologetically himself. 

       Raise a glass, or a fishing rod, to the grumpiest man with the mushiest heart- and may your apples never get bobbed blind. 

 Written by Janine Reid