Gerald

It is always so surprising to me when I go to write you a story and find out that it has been months since I have posted anything. In my mind I have been talking to you all along, which might mean I have a mental illness, but know that I am thinking of you and have all the intentions to write you a little something. It doesn't hurt to remind me if you're missing the stories. I never know who actually reads this anyway, or if I am just talking to myself. In the case of this entry, that would be alright.

This time I want to tell you a little bit about my Uncle Gerald. Before you think, wait, she has an uncle named Gerald? I understand he isn't actually my uncle by blood, but as soon as I was old enough to address him as anything, he was Uncle Gerald. I have always known him as such and that title was buttressed by my Granny's treatment of him as a son, and dad's treatment of him as a brother, and vice versa. He started out after college working as my mom's intern helping her enforce the newly enacted Clean Water Act at the Virginia Water Control Board. He would do her bidding and wade through polluted, dank coal mine runoff streams to collect water samples for her. Through her, he met my dad and has been working alongside him since. 43 years have passed since then, and I don't get paid enough to write you the whole history. I'll warn you now, I don't think I want to share any of my parent's stories in this post because, while it will be a far less entertaining entry for you, it is important to me that these stories are just mine.

On Thursday I got a call I never dreamed I'd get at this stage in either of our lives. My friend Spencer, who I consider the closest thing I have to a brother, and who Gerald treated as a surrogate son, told me Uncle Gerald had passed away. I don't want to go into the details of that day as it was extremely painful for me and I am sure all of my Rugby family so reliving won't be necessary for this story.  I use the term family because it best defines the circle of people who have come together in this tiny part of Southwest Virginia, in some of our cases due to DNA, but more likely just because we have found something beautiful and sacred here. Now I see, we have attached ourselves to each other and this community as tightly as hydrogen bonds with oxygen. I have always thought it was because of my dad, but I am sure now that is not entirely true. While my dad may be the atoms in the formula, Gerald provided the covalence.

Sitting here, I am at a bit of a loss for a specific incident or some humorous anecdote we shared that would help explain why this person is so special to so many of us. The memories that are running through my mind like a ticker tape are all banal, mundane situations that nobody would find special but me, and only in hindsight. As I grew up and would visit my dad on weekends ands school breaks, Gerald was always there but never stood directly in front of me, never demanding my attention or trying to win my affections as so many people hoping to please my dad would do. Where my dad has always been a pivotal star in the movie of my life, Gerald was always there in a supporting role. I didn't realize how perfect that term 'supporting' was until these recent events.

Every year during my dad's Christmas party which typically falls on or very near my birthday, usually as I retreated to the comfort of my room after feeling overwhelmed with the crowd, Gerald would quietly hand me a neatly wrapped gift and tell me happy birthday and Merry Christmas. I am sure my dad wanted to spend time with me on my birthday as well, but he was usually heavily surrounded by party goers so it was a rare occurrence I even saw him. (Same as Father's Day as his festival always falls on that Saturday.) Gerald's gifts to me were usually movies he liked, so if you ever wondered where my love of 90s adventure/disaster movies comes from, thank Gerald. (Men In Black, Independence Day, Jurassic Park to name a few have always held a special place in my heart, not necessarily earned simply due to their content...) My most prized bestowal was a VHS copy of the newly released weather thriller, Twister, which to this day keeps me company in my shop on more occasions than is normal for any human being. I always think of Uncle Gerald as I am cueing it up on my Amazon streaming list. I wish I had told him that.

Growing up, whether I was interested or not, my presence wanted by anyone else or not, I was always made to feel included in anything Gerald had going on. During his annual Easter Egg hunt, where he gently hinted at the location of the golden egg (finding it is a big deal) as I poked through the grass and searched under eaves, or letting me bet on a car during his NASCAR parties even though I didn't have money to buy in, or dealing me into my dad's occasional Tonk games where I was an annoyance to everyone else sitting around the table, and more recently, setting up a business account with Sherwin Williams for me so I can get half priced guitar finish, texting me throughout a trip he is on with my dad so I know he is safe and having a good time, and quietly buying my lunch or dinner at Sarah's where my dad and I would often meet him for a meal. It is no secret he loves gambling, so I will tell you this little story. About a year ago, he nonchalantly bought everyone at our table a lottery ticket, the kind I used to scratch at Vivian's store. That gesture shouldn't have mattered as much as it did, but those old feelings of excitement and the anticipation of good luck flowed in as he slid me a dime and I scratched away the top layer of the card. I anxiously waited for a proclamation of victory from my dad, Gerald, or Allison, all still diligently scratching too. When we were finished we went around the able taking stock of our winnings. Whomever won bought more tickets with their cash prizes and we continued buying and scratching more tickets until we ran out of winning tickets. He never asked for his money back. After the fun of that first time, I bought the tickets the next time and we kept playing like that the last few times I was up working and my dad and I met him for a low key dinner. Those little experiences that maybe shouldn't have mattered so much and aren't outwardly special brought me so much joy. I wish I had told him that.

Stories like mine are not the exception. Reading over people's notes posted on social media and listening to so many friends gathered for his final farewell it was evident that my memories, perhaps not exactly the same, are inherently shared.  Gerald's kindness has radiated through my life, and I think a lot of others, like a low and constant hum you can barely hear; gently reminding us that we are loved and that we matter. I know very few people who give so whole heartedly without any expectation of reciprocation. I am so appreciative of the kindness he has shown me where in the other supporting players in my life there has been far less.  I wish I had told him that.

The past few days I have asked myself and others, what are we going to do? Like a mantra, over and over again. Seriously, what [some expletives Gerald wouldn't use] are we going to do? Who will take care of me? My safety net, the one put in place by my parents when I was born and has grown as more people have come to stand behind me ready to catch me if I take a tumble is extremely important to me, but still, I think I have taken it for granted. I know as we age that net that ebbs and flows, and is meant to shrink as we take over holding that net for someone else, but with this loss, I feel my net has been significantly torn. Not just a little unraveling, I mean a giant hole has been ripped into its middle and I am not sure if it can be repaired.

I don't want to go too far into detail about the funeral other than to say I have never felt more proud of Spencer for delivering the most beautiful and perfect eulogy I am so sure Gerald would be proud of and seeing all of his friends humbly rise and walk on stage to play their Anderson instruments in a final farewell song. But I will say this, every face I saw there was someone I have known for many years. Some who have paid me little attention, and I them along the way, and some who are the closest friends I have. So many of us stood together in support of one another's personal and collective loss. Collected all together, we saw the good in each other that Gerald would have seen. To me, we all seemed a little bit nicer and happier to see each other and I am pretty sure that might be because we all aspire to be the kind human our friend was. Also, I think we all learned a hard lesson from losing someone so unexpectedly who we might not have realized was so deeply entangled with us all. Here is what I learned, so take it to heart: Don't forget to tell your people how you feel about them, it is important.

Late that evening, I sat outside the shop door, under a warm blanket of stars with my dad and several of his friends; no, correction: our friends, feeling like they truly didn't mind me being there when usually I feel like my presence might be taking something from their enjoyment of visiting with my dad. We shot some Roman candles, picked ripe full blackberries off the vine winding its way up the side of the shop wall, chatted about the events of the day. After a while, nothing was left to say so we all sat contentedly together just watching the sky. A bright shooting star raced low across the horizon. I wonder if we were all thinking it was something special and significant, or if that was just me.

Following the burial, after several days of mental and physical anxiety and discomfort, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I truly don't know if I have felt something so powerful in my body before and I don't really want to admit it to you, but I have to in order to make my final point. That mantra that I can't stop hearing, the 'What are we going to do? No, really. How can this be ok?' has quelled. People I don't spend much time with have come and sat down to chat so we can learn about each other, my dad's and Gerald's good friends have told me that if I ever need anything, please don't hesitate to call they would be happy to help with anything. Spencer promised to text me regular updates of my dad's trips. I asked our friend Greg to take care of my dad as I ducked into my car to drive home and he promised he would, whole heartedly knowing the size of the shoes he is attempting to fill. One of us won't be able to do it alone, but I think all of us together can. 

Today I know that we will be ok, because of all the people who are already stepping in to help repair my net.