Uncle Nic left this world a few days ago. It was no surprise. He was almost 90 and had been struggling with memory loss for several years. His was one of those passings that it so confusing with that mix of sorrow and joy, not wanting to lose a love one, but knowing he’s been gone for a long time already and that leaving the world is the only way for him to find peace. It reminded me of my dad leaving the world just a few years ago.

I was surprised at how hard it hit me when I saw the message of Uncle Nic’s passing. I knew it would come, why did it hit so hard? It didn’t take long to figure it out. There were 14 siblings in Uncle Nic’s family. He was one of the younger ones, the eleventh one, I think. My mom was seven when he was born and would have helped take care of him as he grew. 14 kids who grew up on the farm, laughed and played together, held each other up during the hard times and grew up to have their own families and lives, yet remained together in a family built by love. Now, there’s only one left.

My childhood is filled with memories of those aunts and uncles who made me who I am. So many cousins that we rented the VFW hall or some other place each year for our Christmas party. The place would be packed aunts, uncles, the remaining great-aunts and uncles, and so many cousins running everywhere! I remember visiting each other’s houses, family sitting at our kitchen table, and oh so much laughter.

When I think of Uncle Nic, I remember walking into the Mirror Bar which he and Aunt MaryAnn ran all my life. I’d walk in when I was just seven or eight years old maybe to sell my Girl Scout cookies. It was a different and beautiful world where a little girl could walk in to a bar maybe with my mom or maybe just on my own and sell cookies. It was the gift of growing up in Dacada, a tiny, unicorporated, two street town where my family had lived for at least four generations. I walked into that place and everyone sitting there at the bar knew me. They knew Elden and Rita were my parents, that Nic and MaryAnn were my aunt and uncle. They knew my siblings, my cousins, my life. There was something safe there.

Now, some family still live around the Dacada area, but many of us are spread out in different places living our lives. I suppose it is a like a tree. The roots go deep. The trunk is strong but, do the leaves know each other? I don’t know. What I do know is that I am thankful beyond words for having been blessed with all the family that made me, me and so grateful that Uncle Nic was one. I can only hope that he and all the others who’ve walked on before him are gathered together again, lifting a glass, and catching up on stories.