Uncle Dave, this pun's for you

Oh Internets, I am out of sorts. There's so much I'd like to write about right now. What a wonderful concept Spring Break is, how the airport screeners in Peoria, Illinois, have far too much time on their hands, how much I'm looking forward to my trip to go see my best friend Saumya, why I am mad at the socks I've been knitting, why the superhero stamps I bought are really cool but kind of embarrassing to use, how excited I am to start Wardrobe Therapy, and how bummed I am that I'm too busy with school to do Apartment Therapy right now. See, I have lots to say.
But I don't really want to write about any of that right now.

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Peoria. Normally I love visiting. It's my mom's hometown, and lots of my relatives are nearby. They're the side of the family I'm really closer to, and since I haven' t been back since my grandmother's funeral in 2003, it was really about time for a visit. But this visit wasn't the kind you like to make.

My uncle Dave was a really great guy. He loved puns, as do many of my family members, and a visit was never complete without several long punning exchanges, each of us competing to come up with the best reply. He started my obsession with dollhouses, and by extension with the decorative arts. He and my aunt restored an old dollhouse for their daughters in the seventies, and eventually started a miniatures business of their own. As a kid, I got lots of "castoff" miniatures from them -- things that were a little out of scale or a bit rough around the edges. I had a great time ripping them apart and reassembling them into something special for my own dollhouse. Later on, they gave me more detailed and elaborate kits and pieces that are among my most treasured miniature possessions. They even took me to my first miniatures show. All of this exposure to tiny houses combined with my obsession with historical accuracy eventually led me to the study of material culture and design. So he sort of helped make me who I am today.

This weekend I went to his funeral. He had fought cancer for more than ten years, going in and out of remission. This winter, cancer finally got the upper hand. I got to see him this summer, when he was still doing really well, and I am really thankful that I have good memories to hang on to. It's hard to think that he's gone, that I won't find him puttering in the basement or working on his miniatures the next time I go back. It's even harder because of my father, who just finished a round of chemo and radiation himself. He's doing well, but these past few weeks have been a sobering reminder for me, all the awful "what ifs" you think of in the middle of the night made horribly, terribly real. As bad as I feel, I know that my aunt and cousins feel so much worse.

If there's one bright spot, and I have to believe there is, it's that he led a truly exemplary life. The attendance at his wake and funeral, the volume of cards, flowers, and callers -- he made a mark on so many lives, and an impression like that won't soon be forgotten.