Sunday was the memorial service for my uncle. All my siblings arrived from out of state, and we dressed in our funeral best and headed for Ann Arbor once again. It was a gray day, with intermittent rain, appropriate for a funeral I guess. My sister was asked by my aunt to play the bagpipes prior to the service and after its conclusion. I was her handler, helping her warm up, giving her cues to begin playing, opening doors for her as she moved into and out of the small country church where the memorial was being held.

The church organist was playing the piano before the service; it sounded beautiful, even to me standing outside the closed front doors of the sanctuary. It reminded me of Mom playing at her small rural church, which got me on a bit of a tearful train of thought. Also appropriate for a funeral I guess. Then my cousin began to ring the steeple church bell, and the peals rang out into the misty evening air. As the tones faded away I gave the cue to my sister and she began to play her bagpipes; the three hymns requested by my aunt. It suddenly seemed so very sad. And in those moments the overwhelming feelings from the last four weeks of crazy hopes and sad resignation, of family gatherings, of all the final goodbyes swept over me in a rush. And as the tears fell and the rain began to drizzle I let it all just flow out of me in a final remembrance of my Uncle Bill.

My sister, sister-in-law and I drove home together after the service. We took the back roads, traveling past farms and small communities. We could see dark skies ahead, and to our east glimpses of a rainbow. As we moved beyond the trees we realized the rainbow was huge…and that we could see both ends of it across the fields. We pulled off the road and tried to take pictures, but it was so immense that it was impossible to capture it all. Other cars stopped as well and people stood in awe of this mighty rainbow. The three of us commented that perhaps this rainbow had been sent from Uncle Bill, as a gift to us. When it faded we continued on our way, and found ourselves stopped in traffic a bit further on. The cause for the delay was emergency personnel in several official vehicles who had the road closed due to a traffic accident. The ambulance coming toward us was moving slowly but with lights flashing. Either the person inside wasn’t injured too badly, or he was injured so badly that speed didn’t matter. We never found out.

In the end we agreed that the beautiful rainbow, larger and more intense than any other I had ever seen, might well have been a gift from Uncle Bill, used as a tactic to make sure we weren’t at the wrong place at the wrong time when the traffic accident occurred. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.

Bye Uncle Bill. Missing you already.

My Uncle Bill went on to explore new spaces yesterday. Always curious, always learning, he has gone ahead to find out what there is to know about the next place. He was born in 1917 in Queens, to Hungarian immigrant parents, and went on to become a noted physicist. He worked as a scientist with the U.S. Embassy in London, and during World War II in the Office of the Secretary of Defense working on antisubmarine operations. Eventually he moved to Ann Arbor as a research scientist and a professor at the University of Michigan, focusing on the health habits of people. He spent thirty years at the University, retiring as an Emeritus Professor of Health Systems.

That’s the short official version of his life; my version is different. I haven’t always known all the important work he did, I just knew him as Uncle Bill, the man who knew something about everything. The one that took our family’s already eclectic dinner conversations in even more diverse directions. Topics I didn’t know anything about as a kid were discussed. Physics, biology, earth sciences, chemistry, the stock market, corporations, research, just about anything could come up and be debated over dinner. He was like a window on a world I didn’t know existed. As I grew older I also grew to appreciate his intelligence and his opinions. I knew he was different, and that he had had different experiences, but I didn’t really know to what extent until I listened to him talk at his 90th birthday party about his work during World War II. It made me curious to learn more, but I didn’t take the opportunity to talk in depth with him, and that is something I will always regret.

Mostly I will remember him as a sweet man with an infectious smile who was always interested in what I was doing, what all of us were doing. I remember a man always curious about the next new thing, but one who lived comfortably without the latest gadgets. He was a man who read much, listened well, was thoughtful and humble, who completed crossword puzzles and every Wall Street Journal. He was a man who reconciled the past with the future, who used history and science to make the best of today, and who saw the future in his children and grandchildren. He was a man who really wasn’t ready to leave us, but when faced with the reality settled in with grace, lived in the moment and died peacefully in the home he loved with the wife he had loved for the past forty-five years by his side.

If I can live to be 90, be as active and vital as he, and die with the peace and grace he did, well, then I’d be content. You can’t do it any better than that. I’m going to miss you Uncle Bill. Thanks for being the good example that you were. Thanks for the quick smile of greeting I always got from you, the quiet moments of conversation, and the genuine interest you always expressed. I guess, thanks just for being you. Don’t forget us down here, we sure aren’t going to forget you.

I hope they have Wall Street Journals in heaven. I know they must.

The family is still gathered around my uncle. All my siblings have been here the majority of the last week. Some are going back to work today, but will return when needed. My uncle, home under hospice care, is often alert, seems delighted and sometimes surprised to wake and find some or all of us surrounding his bed. He still smiles, acknowledges us and reaches out to shake our hands in greeting. Sometimes in his sleep he will reach for the hand of the person who happens to be sitting next to him. He appears to need our touch, so we and his immediate family are there. I am glad everyone got here while he was awake and able to listen to conversation, even though he can’t speak much. And I am proud of our family for making the effort to be together at this time.