Thankful, Day 6

I think I’ve talked about divisions before. Like, when you’re having a conversation with someone (or maybe just one in your head), about when something happened. I’ll often say, “Let’s see. That was when I was working at the Co-Op the first time.” So that means between 2001 & 2005. Or I might say, “That was after I got married.” Okay, so after 2012. Y’all probably use the birth of your children to figure stuff out. Our biggest life changing moment should be the day we are saved. That is a truly life altering day if you’re living right.

So this day is one of extreme importance as well, a day that lives in my mind as a mark on time.

It is the day I lost my Uncle Dale.

One year I have been without his guidance, his stories, his pestering, his laughs. One year has passed since I’ve told him any tall tales of my own, or eaten his grilled chicken and deer steaks, or performed a requested chore. One whole year I’ve lived with a new hole in my heart. As he would say, “All I know to tell you is you’re gonna have to get tough, Pilgrim.”

But all I’ve ever been was wimpy little girl.

However, in the spirit of being thankful, I can say I had him for 42 and a half years, and I’m thankful for that. I had so many fishing trips to the Clinch, so many “Pilgrim, come out here a minute, I need your help on something” (it’s the “something” that struck icy fear into the marrow of my bones; you never knew what it would be). I had 42 and a half years of short temper and head shakes when I did something he disagreed with (usually like I spent money eating out or on Christmas ornaments), all the exasperation about my horses and boyfriends who were so ugly they’d “kill corn knee high”. I had years of accompanying him to scout for a tree in which to hang his deer stand, hours of Patsy Cline and Rush Limbaugh and one ill-fated deer hunting trip for yours truly, which resulted in about 30 years of stories of me dying of hypothermia. I didn’t really want to shoot a deer as much as I wanted to impress him. Turns out I’m much better suited to fishing for trout and the “elusive yellow perch” than shooting graceful and elegant whitetail deer.

I had 42 and a half years of learning about football and politics and trees and how to grow squash (I knew all about tomatoes already, but I couldnt tell him that). I had years of continuing education about how Fords are the superior truck and lots of holidays where we fought over Shirley Pitner’s stack cake and dozens of hours spent on his front porch next door watching the clouds and birds and deer. Oh, and also borer bees. I had 42 and a half years of a gap toothed grin aimed at me. I had 42 and a half years of unconditional love.

I am thankful for that.

It hurts like the devil dickens. Because in the end, despite his best efforts, I’m still just a wimpy little girl.