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I'm not sure what exactly I'm grieving for.  I haven't seen him in 25 years. But somehow, learning of his death after the fact, with barely a mention of it anywhere, and his age when he died hits me.  He was only 54 years old at his death.  Which means two of the three siblings have died: my mother at age 39, and Uncle Sam at age 54. (Maybe I should start going to the gym after all.) Did my grandmother live through another of her children's deaths?


I could be grieving the loss of my fun, favorite uncle, or the loss of the possibility of creating a relationship with him, or the happy memories of a time when we took road trips as a family, as a unit.  We bundled up in the car, drove down our private dirt road, and took off.  Often, the trip was at least partially in the dark, with looming trees, around and through mountains.  There a few tunnels in Oregon that literally cut through the mountain.  My father would flash his lights and honk his horn (which evidently was the accepted protocol when driving through these tunnels, at least that's what our parents told us), and we always tried to be awake for it.  At the end of the journey, we tumbled back out of the car into hugs and laps.  I definitely remember being held on Sam and Jenny's laps and the hugs.


I also remember beer, on the part of my father and Uncle Sam. But this was nothing new, as beer played a role in my father's socializing with his cousins also.  Later, as a young adult, I wondered briefly about alcoholism and Uncle Sam.  But now, realizing how young he was six years ago, I did the mental calculations and was staggered at how young he must have been when I was born (19?) and during the time of our visits (24-25?).   They were just having fun and enjoying our time together.


Then, all of a suddent, our parents told us about the divorce and that we would not be visiting their house any more.  I didn't understand why one had to do with the other, but I didn't see Uncle Sam again until that afternoon at my grandparents' house. I have always wondered why he didn't contact us, or step in, or do something.  There were so many adults in our lives, including my father, and they had to have known, and they didn't do anything.


I also didn't know that when he walked out my grandparents' door that day that I would never see him again.  Maybe he tried, maybe he didn't know he could. My father was already busy creating a different family unit with my stepmother, and I don't know how difficult it was for my mother's family to reach him.  I could have tried, but I definitely didn't know I could.  And I was too wrapped up in my own teenage angst and issues and life to worry about it. After I graduated high school and started paying a few lightning visits to my grandparents on my own I could have asked about him.  But I didn't even think about it. Then I left, and left him behind with everyone else.


I always pictured him getting married again, having children of his own, living his life. And now I am attempting to wrap my head around the idea that Uncle Sam no longer exists in the world, that no obituary seems to exist, that no survivors seem to exist.  Turns out Uncle Sam and I have something in common.