Uncle Rollie

After a year in Calgary, I finally had a chat with my darling Uncle Rollie yesterday.  Ninety seven next month, he still has it in spades.  The last of my parent's generation, he has always been my favourite uncle because he often acted like a kid himself.  What kid doesn't love that?!  Man, when he goes I will be devastated because that will be the end of them...my classy, wonderful, marvellous parents, aunts and uncles. 

"Nancy, someone here wants to speak with you, hang on," said sister-in-law Christine on the line from Ottawa.  "Hello Nancy dearest," says Uncle Rollie with a laugh.  "Rollie, I am so glad to hear from you," I reply, almost in tears.  "Donnie (his son and my favourite cousin)  just poured me a big scotch and I'm bombed!" he chuckles again.  Of course he's not "bombed", but one drink hits him now as it never did before and his words are a little more slippery as we chat. 

"How's Calgary?" he booms.  For some dumb reason, I figured he was out of it and would not remember we had moved to Calgary.  How wrong I was.  "I'd love to get out there for The Stampede, but I guess it won't happen.  Too old," he laments.  How I wish I could just star-trek-transport him.  He is one of the finest gentlemen you will ever meet.  Always in a good mood, always grateful for every little thing you give or do for him, always smiling broadly, always crazy about children, babies, grandchildren and great-grandchildren  -- no matter whose. 

When we were kids, we would repair every July to a primitive rented cottage in the Gatineau Hills -- all six cousins and four aunts and uncles.  No electricity, no running water and a "privy" were what we made do with.......and we loved it.  What I remember most was the laughter at night, while we pretended to sleep and our parents played poker and bridge into the wee hours -- no doubt imbibing in a little rye and water.  But what I also remember was that no one ever got drunk, no one ever yelled or fought and no one ever argued. 

I also remember berry picking on scorching July mornings, among the frighteningly large cows in the adjacent farmer's field, with my resourceful grandmother so she could can raspberry preserves using the inferno that was the belching woodstove in the back kitchen.  I never seemed to get my pail very full because I ate too many berries.  My venerable grandmother, Mrs. Lillian Stapledon -- she of the onion pie, the root vegetable, the stew, the jiblet, the potato.  Young Miss Lillian Lord, kitchen wizzard. 

I also remember swimming and cavorting out to the raft the daredevil boys would duck under to yell victoriously in the small air space they found there. 

My family had plain, simple fun.

In addition to all of his many French Canadian brothers and sisters, Uncle Rollie has buried two wives and two daughters.  Yet he retains a cheerful acceptance of his lot.  He is one of a dwindling number of WWII vets and every year wears his medals proudly on Remembrance Day.  Ever practical, he asked B before we left Ottawa to accompany him to his childhood parish so he could meet the priest and plan his funeral.  When that dreaded time comes, we will be there to say farewell to a fine, fine man.