Remembering Uncle Glenn

 Nineteen days ago, I flew westward out of St. Louis into the heart of the Mountain Time Zone. I was headed to Denver before catching a connecting flight to Colorado Springs, where I would be ordained as a deacon that evening at Holy Trinity Church, a culmination of sorts for my holy orders within the Anglican Church in North America. But the service wasn't on my mind as we began our descent into Denver, with the Rocky Mountains arrayed over the landscape. My thoughts were drawn to the plight of my uncle Glenn Davis. Ninety years old, he was dealing with a COVID-19 diagnosis and was in some rehab before he could return to his senior living quarters near Littleton. When I walked through the airport, I regretted that I had just a little over an hour before my flight to Colorado Springs. It would have been nice to visit Uncle Glenn, but even if I had the time, COVID restrictions meant I'd get nowhere close to a face-to-face meeting. It was not to be.

After that evening, I went back to St. Louis, with stole and ordination certificated in hand. After a few days, my dad informed my brothers and me that Glenn had contracted pneumonia on top of his COVID. It was hospice time and Glenn wasn't expected to linger much beyond a few days. He was content to let matters go and face the end.

An end, as it turned out, that was sooner than later. I got back from church last Sunday, after my first diaconal duties in Holy Communion to an email from Dad. Uncle Glenn had died quietly at 2:30 that morning. 

Occasionally, sad news hits you like an unexpected gut punch beyond what you envisioned. Geographically, our family was not close to Uncle Glenn and Aunt Clarice, and my father (being the unplanned caboose of a litter of five boys) was fourteen years Glenn's junior. But many grand memories of Uncle Glenn have caused any of those distances to vaporize. He was a wonderful uncle whom I grew to prize over the years.

Once, when we stopped by his place in suburban Kansas City in 1985, he took my brothers and me over to his country club so we could go swimming, and--in a magnificent expression of generosity--Uncle Glenn said, "Now, boys, if you get hungry, the concession stand is over there. Don't pay a dime...just mention my name and they'll put it on my tab."

My uncle had a tab. To a lad just shy of fifteen years old, that was amazing news. And dangerous, given my appetite. Remarkably, we restrained ourselves with only an Eskimo Pie apiece.

Glenn could wax eloquently about anything, I found. Even at a wake. No kidding. In the summer of 1986, Grandpa Davis died and we all gathered together in Sandy Lake, Pennsylvania. Glenn gave me an enthusiastic hello in the funeral home--all "hellos" were enthusiastic with Glenn--and then asked me how things had gone with football the past year. I talked about playing offensive line and the differences in blocking schemes between guards and tackles. And Glenn--almost as if he was hoping to discuss X's and O's--launched into a fabulous monologue regarding how to block on traps, counters, and the like. He even talked about what to look out for with a four-man front, five-man, or the wide-tackle-6. And we were at his father's and my grandfather's visitation, and he was acting as if we were in a locker room at halftime. It was incredible.

Even more insane was how Glenn was the ringleader after the funeral dinner when we were back at Grandma's house. My dad and all the uncles, and their families, crashed in the living rooms, and I swear Glenn and the others told so many yarns and gut-busting stories the place roared with laughter like it was a comedy club, with no story being taboo, Glenn laughing the loudest. Poor Grandma put her hand to her head and pleaded, "Can't you boys think of something pleasant to talk about?" And Glenn would launch into the next, "D'ya remember when...?" moment.

I'm sure he'd given Grandma many anxious moments. In a family storybook, Glenn gave a tribute to Grandma, saying that she had been unable to come to many of his high school events when he was younger, but "she made a special point to attend my final football game of my senior year." Then, in deadpan form, he wrote, "I was kicked out of the game for fighting."

Glenn the generous. He got us tickets for a Royals baseball game when we went through town in 1989, making sure we took his parking pass along. The Royals, as they have in all seven games where I've seen them in person, won the game that night as Uncle Glenn made a memory.

But perhaps the three memories I know of happen to be more of the lump-in-the-throat variety. After they moved out to Estes Park, Colorado, and as age took a toll, Aunt Clarice's mind slipped as her dementia rose. Taking care of the house while shepherding Clarice's needs proved very taxing for Glenn, but he soldiered on with determination. Dad recalls that Glenn was asked why he didn't just put Clarice in a nursing home, and Glenn point-blank said, "Well, I signed up for this." Uncle Glenn kept his vows stubbornly, in an age when so many marriages shipwreck over so much less.

Ultimately, he and Clarice had to enter nursing care after a while. Clarice continued to slip while Glenn visited her on her wing of the facility with the devotion of a young lover. One day, Glenn arrived in her room as Clarice was taking a nap, and he lay down and snuggled up next to his bride. Maybe he figured he didn't know how many chances he'd have to do that anymore. As it turns out, he was right to do so. In a moment reminiscent of any Nicholas Sparks scene, Clarice died as Glenn dozed with her. He signed up for it, and was with her to the end.

One final memory came after I published my first novel, Litany of Secrets. Inspired by P.D. James, I set the tale of murders at a seminary with a wheelchair-bound detective named Cameron Ballack in hot pursuit of justice. A number of people wrote reviews on Amazon, and I will always be grateful for their kind words. But the greatest verbal treasure I got regarding my authorial debut was from Uncle Glenn himself. Dad had sent him a copy of Litany of Secrets as the story took place in the St. Louis region and Glenn and Clarice had lived in St. Louis before their Kansas City days. He sent me a hand-written letter, saying how thankful he was to have gotten a copy, that he had really enjoyed the story, and how wonderful it was to be able to read a novel and be familiar with the places it describes.

I still have that letter.

Yes, I'd rather Uncle Glenn still be alive. But a ninety-year life lived well is something to be proud of. And looking back on the memories he created is something I can always enjoy. 

Miss you, Uncle Glenn, and thank you for everything.