My Uncle Robert died yesterday.

My son and I went to see him last week at the hospital after I got off work. After his health took a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, he was placed in intensive care while the medical staff checked him over. His body was giving out as always happens after a long life, so they put him on the top floor of the hospital in the intermediate care unit. This place has rooms with glass walls adjoining the hallway, and monitoring instruments of all sorts to keep close watch over the tenants.

When we first arrived, both my Uncle Robert and my aunt were sleeping, he in the bed, snoring through the oxygen mask, she slumped in a side chair, no doubt exhausted from many days of hospital sitting. He woke himself up after a few minutes, just as we were about to tiptoe out so as not to disturb them. Seeing someone in the room, he came to full awareness. At first, he didn't recognize me, since he hasn't seen a lot of me in recent years, and my hair and face have changed. But then he connected, and a big smile spread over his face. He greeted me with that same enthusiasm he has always shown me, ever since I was a small child. He said he had been sick, and he was doing a little better now. He didn't complain; he didn't burden us with his plight; he was just glad to see us.

Uncle Robert was one of my favorite people. He was one of those rare people who played a special role in my life as I grew up, someone who influenced me in so many ways just by being himself. For the most part, he was a simple man. He knew what he enjoyed, and he set about doing as much of those things as he could.

Near the top of his list must have been fishing on the Sabine River. Uncle Robert taught me how to set and run trot lines, and even though my busy life kept me from going with him in recent years, the memories of those fishing trips all those years ago are still with me. On one trip I can recall, we had gone down in the evening to bait lines, and as we worked our way up river, storm clouds gathered as twilight came upon us. I can still feel the sting of the rain pelting my face as he, my father, and I raced back to Board's Ferry in total darkness. The small flat-bottomed boat was pushing us down river against a stiff wind with all the speed the 9.5 Johnson outboard could muster. We had lost the bet that we could get all the lines baited before the approaching thunderstorm overtook us. With frequent lightening bolts illuminating our way down the twisting course of the river, we finally made it safely to camp, soaked from head to toe, exhilarated and happy.

My son and I talked mostly about fishing in the hospital with Uncle Robert. When I told him about the twenty-two pound appaloosa catfish that my son had brought up out of Caddo Lake last year, he looked over at him, and their eyes met with the wordless excitement of the true fisherman. He asked for all the details; where the hole was, what we used for bait, how we cleaned the fish; all the things fishermen need to know to improve their luck the next time out. In the space of those few minutes while we talked about catching the big one, my son came to know my Uncle Robert as I did, at long last.

When one of the hospital staff brought a dinner tray, he commented about the jello and the broth, not real food after all, but at least he was eating again. He made small talk with her, little things that made her feel good about herself.  By the time the woman left, she too had been taken in by his good-natured humor, and after exchanging a few comments with him, she left with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.

My son and I lingered for awhile, and when he had eaten a little, I helped him as he struggled a bit to get his oxygen mask back on. I knew this was probably my last goodbye, and I suspect he did too, but neither of us could say it. I grasped his hand to shake it, then added my other hand and held it for a bit. As I searched his face with my eyes, I could see that he was completely at peace, with no fear of what would come next. I let go, content that he was ready, and he smiled as he shook hands with my son. We said a simple goodbye and headed for home.

Uncle Robert had discovered something many people never learn, that the joy of life is in helping other people to be happy. All his life, his humility, his gentle good humor, and his enjoyment of simple things enriched so many people's lives. He never judged others harshly, and he rarely argued. He accepted people with all their faults, and he always had many friends. Whether it was a fishing trip with his buddies or a big fish-fry with all the relatives, you could count on a good time when he was around. When you needed to borrow a tool, or needed to weld something back together, his time and his possessions were yours for the asking. It was as if he was always just waiting for people in need of something to show up at his door. He would get up out of his favorite chair and head off wherever he was needed, whether it was for a few minutes or the rest of the day.

Like all such people, Uncle Robert was occasionally taken advantage of, but it didn't matter much to him. He had a kind of wealth much more valuable than money or possessions. He had the richness of a pure heart. Of all the many things I learned from him, this was the most precious.

Uncle Robert is no longer with us, but his memory and his spirit lives on in those of us who were privileged to share a part of our lives with him. We'll all miss him.