Thanks, Uncle Mick - for everything

The breeze had just the right mix of coolness and warmth. The sun shimmered on the water and fish jumped and played in the fountain off to the side. And this bench, for a time, was empty. There will always be an empty spot in our hearts where Uncle Mick used to live, but his time here brightened our world and we're thankful for that.




A dozen almonds, a handful of shoestring potatoes, five gumdrops (two red, one white, two black) and a cup of coffee does not make for a nutritious breakfast, not by any stretch of the imagination. On Monday morning I wasn’t really thinking about such things; I was thinking about Uncle Mick. In a few hours my husband and I would be saying good-bye to the man who had brought us together.

I met my husband’s uncle before I met any of the other Washburns. In 1970, I was fresh out of high school when I got a job at Union Federal. I was scared green to be working in such a nice place and I couldn’t have found any two people more down-to-earth and friendly than George and Viola Washburn. One tall, one short and tiny—they were the perfect couple in my eyes. And oh, did they make people laugh.

I can’t remember exactly how it happened. Maybe one day I mentioned where I lived, and perhaps I said something about the cute guy who managed Harper’s Gas Station. With that information, George and Viola were ready to bring two people together over pizza at their house. And the fact that the cute guy was their nephew? Well, that was just fate.

The two of us showed up at the little house down the hill, had pizza and soda, and barely looked at one another. Talking was held to a minimum, so George and Viola filled in the many blank pauses in conversation. Something must have clicked because three months after we began dating we were married. I can still remember the little trick my Aunt “Vicky” pulled on me as a member of the wedding party. It was as funny as Uncle “Mick” pulling my husband-to-be in from the outside of the church so he wouldn’t be late to the altar.

Everyone I know called them Mick and Vick, so I did too. Uncle Mick loved our kids as much as he loved us. When our youngest managed a pizza joint (and why not? His parents met over pizza), Uncle Mick would order their meal and almost immediately demand to see the manager. He’d get such a kick out of the look on his great-nephew’s face when he came out to see who it was.

I do remember another date before I was married. Hubby and I were eating at the restaurant inside Grant’s store when we were suddenly surprised by a face appearing out of nowhere. Hands cupped around his eyes, there stood Uncle Mick staring inside to see how we were doing. That was our uncle—always making sure others were having a good time.

Over the last few years, I’ve mostly seen Uncle Mick at McDonald’s. I love going there, not just because the coffee is great and the atmosphere is conducive to writing, but because I see so many long-time friends and family. It won’t be the same now without Uncle Mick sliding into the booth across from me so we could catch up on each other’s lives. I’d ask about his daughter Sherry, his granddaughters Angie and Nichelle, and he’d be so proud to tell me about them and his great-grandkids. Gosh, that man loved his family to pieces.

With his slightly-skewered sense of humor, Uncle Mick would often remind me about how he was responsible for introducing me to the love of my life. And without missing a beat, he’d add, “Sorry about that.” We both knew he wasn’t a bit sorry, and we loved him for that and for all of the light and laughter he brought to us over the years.

Thanks, Uncle Mick. For everything.