The Five of Clubbs: Avuncular

avuncular:

adjective

like an uncle: kind or friendly like an uncle

When I first learned this definition, it forever became imprinted in mind as "like my Uncle Denny." My mom's younger brother, Dennis, was the kind of guy who took a home movie when he found my cousin and me, two guilty-looking toddlers, covered in baby powder. When I had a '50s-themed birthday party, he gave my guests and me a ride in his convertible. He could be counted on to get doughnuts if you stayed overnight or to take you for a Dilly Bar on the way home from church. In fact, he brought Dilly Bars to the ICU waiting room when his father was being treated for a stroke. He couldn't stand to see all of us grandkids so sad, and he said nobody could be sad while eating a Dilly Bar. And thus, avuncular was, to me, a very high compliment.

When my dad died six years ago, Uncle Denny drove down from my hometown of Kankakee, Illinois, to stay with my mom for a few days. When he came over to our house, I walked out of my room to greet him and found he was already playing with my kids. Because his grandchildren called him "Pops," my kids called him "Uncle Pops." He could never replace my dad, but he was letting me know he would help make sure my kids would still get a grandfather's kind of love and fun.

Uncle Denny wasn't the only uncle in my life. There's Uncle Paul, my mom's older brother, a gifted artist and poet with a dry sense of humor. There's Uncle Sam, my Aunt Dodie's husband, who can always help you out and give financial advice. There's my Aunt Teresa's husband, Tom, the doctor, who joined our family in my adulthood and likes to talk health and politics with me. And then there was my Uncle Gil, my dad's only brother, who died in a car accident when I was 3. I have a few pictures of him holding me, but only one memory -- and that's of my dad holding me up and whispering for me to say, "Goodbye, Big Shooter," as we passed the casket.

In August, my Uncle Denny suddenly, impossibly, left us, succumbing to a heart condition the doctors hadn't been able to effectively treat. I found myself whispering to Lily, my youngest daughter, "Say, 'See you later, Uncle Pops,'" as we passed his casket.

In the novel and movie "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," young Oskar narrates, "If the sun were to explode, you wouldn't even know about it for eight minutes because that's how long it takes for light to travel to us. For eight minutes the world would still be bright and it would still feel warm. It was a year since my dad died and I could feel my eight minutes with him ... were running out."

I'm trying to hang on to the brightness and warmth of my Uncle Denny. I still have my last Facebook messages with him on my phone. There's one where he was asking me about something he later worked into his second to last column at The Daily Journal. In the one before that, I was thanking him for showing my son, Eli, such a good time on a recent visit to Kankakee. "Thanks for being a great Uncle Pops," I told him. He replied with some more details about their adventures and ended with, "It was fun. You're welcome. I guess this is my role. To remind kids that they should be fun uncles someday."

So the purpose of this column isn't to lament sudden deaths, although they do lend immediacy to this message. The purpose is to encourage you to be avuncular. (Yes, even if you are a woman -- though the term for "aunt like" is materternal.) Be generous. Look for the fun in life. Love people. #livelikedennis. I feel like my eight minutes with my uncle can be extended if I live like he did, and maybe inspire others around me to do the same.

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Brooke Hildebrand Clubbs is an instructor of communication studies and director of health communication at Southeast Missouri State University. She (literally) runs around Jackson, where she lives with one husband, three kids, and two dogs. She credits a lot of her writing style to her Uncle Denny. His work can be found at www.daily-journal.com. Hers can be found at brookehclubbs.wordpress.com.