In Praise of Uncle Bob

I started writing this tribute to my Uncle Bob the day after I learned he’d had a heart attack and, though still alive, was in a coma. The task was a distraction, a way to harness my fear of losing him into something somewhat productive. I was mindful to write about him in the present tense despite my heavy heart and the niggling feeling his time on earth was likely running out. And then it did. Never regaining consciousness, he died five days later. Because of Covid-19 and my aunt’s compromised immune system, there can’t be a service anytime soon. I’m a seasoned griever, I know what to do: cry, lean on the people who love me, write. But to not be able to physically come together in celebration of his beautiful life, to not be able to hold Aunt Sue in my arms, to be held by my cousins…I’m rudderless, drifting along aimlessly in this new grief.

I should have been on a plane the day after he collapsed. Once he died, we’d have been in full-blown planning mode; I would’ve used my organizational skills to relieve some of the burdens from Aunt Sue. I’ve single-handedly — along with those unsung heroes, funeral directors — planned two funerals in the past six years. Those were relatively small, quiet affairs. When I wrap my head around an event befitting such a universally appreciated, respected and loved man as Bob Johns, I ponder how large the space needs to be to accommodate all the people his life touched. For starters, there’s the population of Midland, his life-long hometown. Next on the list is a large portion of the Central Michigan University campus, where he devoted his twilight career years. There are also countless friends and family spread all over the country. He never left Midland, but his impact truly reached far and wide. The Midland Center for the Arts comes to mind as a possible venue. My Aunt Sue worked there for decades before she retired, and Uncle Bob was their longest tenured volunteer, having spent over 50 years(!) working backstage, loading in and out special exhibits and running the lights and AV board for performances. He loved the work which he happily did for free: the physical exertion, the camaraderie, being helpful, having people look to him as an expert, getting to watch shows from the best seat in the house, and meeting a continuous string of professional roadies and performers. If a celebration of his life was to be held in that auditorium, there would likely be an overflow crowd. The Dow Diamond comes to mind as another potential option. As unprecedented as it might be to hold a memorial service at a minor league baseball stadium, if anyone warrants it, it’s my Uncle Bob.

But all this conjecture is useless right now. There was no last-minute flight to the Midwest, no scrambling for funeral outfits for me and my family, no coordinating with my cousins coming from Virginia, no debating with our aunt in Florida (the sole surviving Johns sibling) about whether she’s physically able to fly to her baby brother’s funeral. We’re all just stuck where we are — at home — where we’ve been for six months and will likely be for another six more, at least. Without being able to direct my grief towards the typical tasks of planning, traveling to and having a funeral, I have no choice but to continue with my “Groundhog Day in the Age of Covid” existence. Amidst that backdrop, I’ve been compelled to write such a lengthy eulogy to remember and honor him, for myself more than anything. This is my version of Uncle Bob’s story, and how big a role he’s played in my story. In crafting this narrative, I was startled by just how many words kept pouring out. The current draft is way longer than anyone would realistically be willing to sit through if I were to recite it aloud at a memorial celebration. That said, Uncle Bob would probably get a kick out of it, like when I held true to my brother’s wishes of having Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” played at his funeral. Halfway through the song, which the priest had asked everyone to stand for, Uncle Bob leaned over to me and asked, “Do you think Padre has any idea how fricking long this song is?” with an irreverent twinkle in his eyes. (“Free Bird” clocks in at a very long 9:07, by the way.) I don’t presume that I’ll be tapped to give the official eulogy when we are able to have a service for Uncle Bob. It would be an honor, but I’m very aware that my name is at the end of a long list of friends who have just as many stories to tell about what a great guy he is. I mean, was. Three weeks later, the past tense is still hard to grapple with.

Here are some things to know about my Uncle Bob. He was a gregarious storyteller, lover and champion of the performing arts, and a generous philanthrope both financially and with his time, having spent thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of hours volunteering in his community. The thing that has come up in every single tribute to him I’ve read, though, is how much he loved his wife Sue. Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue were both born and raised in Midland, Michigan and built incredibly full lives there. She is the most harmonious yin to his yang. Trust me that, were he able to hear that sentence right now, he’d proclaim with an impish grin, “Well, geeeeeez, that’s a little personal, don’t you think?!” at the implied innuendo. Sue is quiet, thoughtful, whip-smart, a voracious reader and the most knowledgeable sports fan I’ve ever met. Bob was boisterous, blustery, and had a brain wired for technical circuitry as an audio/visual professional and avocational roadie. Together, they loved traveling, enjoying great food and appreciated nothing more than a good gin & tonic (or three) at the end of the day. Aunt Sue was his whole world, and he was hers. My aunt wrote in an email, “I feel very lucky to have had him and I know he felt lucky to have me, so I guess that kind of delineates a good marriage — if you each think YOU are the lucky one!” Theirs was the truest example I’ve ever witnessed of what it looks like to be married to your best friend. I’m grateful that I recognize so much of their success reflected in my own marriage to my best friend.

Bob was six years younger than my mother, the youngest of my grandmother’s four surviving children, a “surprise!” baby if there ever was one. He and Aunt Sue didn’t have children, and when I was about 7 or so, I’d be brought to tears by his surly indifference. Mom would reassure me, her overly sensitive child, that Uncle Bob loved me, but he just didn’t know how to relate to kids. As I got a bit older, he made more of an effort to connect with me. Once, he took me to a playground so we could shoot a roll of black and white film with his trusty Nikon FE. In the darkroom he had set up in my Grandma’s basement, we developed the film (he did all the fiddly bits of this part) and made prints. I’ll never forget the process of projecting light through a film negative we’d just made, exposing an image of me onto the blank photo paper. It was magical to then watch the image slowly appear as he showed me how to gently agitate the paper in a chemical bath. I’ve always attributed my love of this art form being rooted in the photography classes I took while at art school. But really, when I follow the tendrils more deeply in the soil of my soul, that moment with Uncle Bob in his makeshift darkroom was my true start as a photographer. He continued to be a benefactor of my artistic pursuits when I told him about the photography credit requirements at MIAD, which were part of the design curriculum I was taking. He “loaned” me that same Nikon camera, along with all the lenses, gels, dusters, cleaning wipes, camera cases, a flash and the original user manuals for all of it packed up neatly in a professional camera bag. I never used half of this stuff, but he wanted to make sure I had it at my disposal. I brought the camera with me to Ireland for a five-week Photography & Storytelling course I took there, well before the advent of digital photography. At my college graduation, when I mentioned he’d probably be wanting his camera equipment back, he gruffly waved at the air and said, “Keep it, it’s yours. You’ve used it more in the last three years than I have in the last 20 anyway.” While he was still in a coma following his heart attack, I pulled out his old Nikon with an irresistible urge to shoot film. I ordered ten rolls of 36-exposure Fujifilm 400. On September 6th, I decided to make one exposure each day for the next year, meaning the project will end on the 1st anniversary of his death. Holding that camera and feeling the familiar muscle memory of dialing in the aperture and shutter speed feels like he has his arm around me. I’m also keeping track of each exposure time and f-stop in a field notebook just because it seems like something he would do. Originally, I thought I’d title this project “My Year Without Uncle Bob,” but I’ve since changed it to “A Year with Uncle Bob’s Camera.” It feels better to focus (pun intended) on what I’ve got as to opposed to what I’m living without.

He told the same stories over and over. Aunt Sue must have heard them hundreds of times, but with the patience of Job she listened every time. He loved telling the story about how, following my birth, his mother adamantly insisted on meeting her new granddaughter immediately. It was early March, and he drove her the 375 miles from Midland, MI to Marinette, WI through a blizzard, white knuckling it over the Mackinac Bridge in zero visibility. When they finally arrived at our house and saw me, Grandma Johns cooed with pride, “Oh, she’s so beautiful!” (Imagine a cantankerous grown man imitating his mother’s voice in his telling of this story.) The punch line was Uncle Bob exclaiming with gleeful exasperation, “I said, ‘What are you talking about? We just drove 8 hours through a blizzard to meet this ugly, red, wrinkled thing?!?!’” He would eventually get around to saying, “You turned out alright, I guess.”

Though it often made me crazy in the moment, I’m grateful that Uncle Bob was such a broken record with his stories. With him gone, I can now count on one hand the people who can answer questions about my family history, and that’s on both the Johns and Guizzetti sides. But the threads he passed on to help weave the story of my history are taut. It’s one of the many gifts he gave me. It’s also a reminder for me to practice being a more patient listener, because there’s no guarantee how many chances there will be to hear something important. Oral traditions are sacred in many cultures, and Uncle Bob was my wise elder storyteller. Thanks to all that repetition, I can easily recount to you the story of how Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue first met (she almost canceled the blind date due to a migraine, but decided to power through anyway,) how as a kid he was nearly an extra in the movie “Anatomy of a Murder,” starring Jimmy Stewart, or how he woke up in my cousin Melody’s sorority house the weekend of her college graduation (she’d given him her bed since she slept at her boyfriend/future husband’s place anyway) to Melody’s gorgeous roommate looking down at him, saying, “You must be Uncle Bob!” He was vocal about his appreciation of my cousins’ and my good-looking friends, which was more endearing than creepy since we all knew every woman paled in comparison to Aunt Sue’s beauty in his eyes. And then there were the stories that made him cry, yet he told them again and again anyway. This one in particular would bring up the waterworks: his mother was a prolific writer and had a tradition of mailing an annual Christmas letter to 200 of her closest friends since 1961. When Anna May died, my Aunt Marcia took artwork, photos, poems and little stories that her mother had sent over the years to create the 25th edition of the Johns Family Christmas Card. I never saw Uncle Bob tell this story of his sister sending out that last batch of cards without tears in his eyes; it always struck me how much he loved, and still missed, his Mom.

Regarding his travel style, Uncle Bob would undoubtedly overload the itinerary. His list of must-do’s was always twice as long as what was feasible, ending each trip with a jovial, “Well, we’ve got to save something for next time!” Thinking of him saying those words brings a pang to my heart now. As useless as it is, I find myself thinking about all the “next time’s” that won’t be happening. I’m especially fixated on the recent plans we had to cancel because of Covid; we were supposed to see each other twice during the summer of 2020.

First, in June we were going to attend my niece’s high school graduation. Uncle Bob LOVED a graduation and never needed a direct invitation to attend, always assuming there would be room for him and Sue to be in the audience. In our planning emails about meeting up in Wisconsin, he mentioned that he prefers college graduation ceremonies to high school ones, but since I was going to be making the trip, he didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see his niece and grandniece at the same time. Anytime I was within a 400-mile radius of Midland, Uncle Bob would look at his schedule to see what he could cancel, shift or postpone in order to join me. I believe the unspoken desire to attend Allie’s graduation, though, was that he wasn’t sure he’d be around to see her graduate from college in four years.

The second set of canceled plans is the hardest to come to terms with, though. Two weeks before he died, we should have all been together on Orcas Island. Uncle Bob, Aunt Sue, my cousins and their husbands had planned on joining Michael and me to drink G&T’s on the deck at our property, take in the sunsets and appreciate all of us being together in such a beautiful place. That it didn’t happen haunts me and my cousins. I am so glad, however, that Uncle Bob & Aunt Sue made a trip out west to see us in 2017. Their happy place is Mackinac Island, ours is Orcas, and it was really wonderful to share it with them. Uncle Bob appreciated that I hung an oil painting of the Johns family cottage in our trailer there; the painting was commissioned by my Grandma Johns and I took it from my mother’s house after she died. In the foreground of the painting is Lake Michigamme, where Michael and I were married, thus it’s sentimental for many reasons. Uncle Bob was very excited for our plans to build a house on the island and pledged to come back when we broke ground. “It’s not going to be that exciting, it’ll just be a construction site,” I’d told him. “Why don’t you plan to come when the house is finished?” He replied, “Well, I’ll come then, too!” How I wish that could be true.

I’ve hosted him in Seattle and on Orcas Island, visited him in Midland, traveled with him to Mackinac Island twice, and we spent lots of time together in my hometown during the years my mother’s health declined. I came to understand two things are guaranteed when traveling with Uncle Bob: 1. Like a new mother with her diaper bag, Uncle Bob was never without a small, dedicated cooler to hold life’s essentials: ice, limes, Tanqueray, a cutting board & knife for said limes, and of course, tonic. 2. Uncle Bob simply cannot resist asking every. single. person who comes across his path, “Where are you from?” No matter the reply to this question, he’d launch into a meandering conversation with these complete strangers until Aunt Sue would quietly say, “Let’s go, dear…” That meant in about 5–10 minutes we could all move along with our lives, including the hapless tourist or member of the wait staff he’d cornered. When Aunt Sue wasn’t around for one of these encounters, I was less gentle in my pleas of, “Uncle Bob, leave these poor people alone.” I’d groan inwardly every time the words came out of his mouth, but in truth it was sweet. He wanted to connect with people, hear their stories and share his. I have the same urge in me, though I like to think I’m more perceptive of people’s body language. Uncle Bob made everyone his new best friend whether they wanted to be or not!

Every year that passed in our relationship, a layer would peel off and he got softer and softer, easily overcome by his deep well of sentimentality. My father died after a long illness when I was 15, and without warning my cousins’ (Melody and Cynthia) father died two weeks later. They were 26 and 23 years old, respectively. Uncle Bob was a father figure to all three of us (he affectionately called us “the girls”) after losing our dads. Conversely, we three girls were all he had left of his two beloved sisters, our mothers, once they were gone. We clung to each other in our grief like life preservers and our connections grew stronger. Uncle Bob and I understood each other in a unique way, having experienced loss early and often throughout our lives: we were the youngest in our families, our fathers died when we were young teens, and both of us bore the brunt of caregiving for our widowed mothers and handled the logistics and paperwork of closing out their estates after they were gone.

During the last years of my mother’s life, Uncle Bob gave me extraordinary support. Starting from her first heart attack in 2001, every time I flew back to Wisconsin from Seattle to tackle whatever crisis was at hand, he would drop everything to make the 6–7 hour drive (6 hours 37 minutes with stops, which he would recount the exact time of each leg of the trip, where he stopped, and what he ate. I would hear that trip’s version of the rehashing at least three times during our time together since he would tell it to anyone who would listen, such as the grocery checkout lady.) In 2013, it became clear my Mom was slipping into dementia and wasn’t able to manage her diabetes on her own any longer. I needed to move her into an assisted living home quickly, plus figure out how to empty and sell her house and car while living 2,000 miles away. Once I had a spot secured for her at the care facility, I booked a flight to my hometown where I would have three days to sort through her things, move the furniture that would fit into a one-bedroom suite, decide what I would want to keep for myself (and how to get it back to Seattle,) get Mom settled and fly back home in time to go on a long-planned trip to Australia ten days later. Uncle Bob was by my side the whole time, along with my dear friend Kortney. The three of us were like tornadoes tearing through her mobile home, sorting piles of what to keep, donate, or pitch. There were no Marie Kondo moments of thoughtfully considering whether each item brought me joy or not. My guiding emotions during the clean out were panic, stress and sadness. Uncle Bob’s pile of what he was bringing home got bigger and bigger and he joked, “Well, someday you’re going to have to come empty out my house and deal with all this stuff again. But shit, I’ll be gone — so who cares!” He was a dangerous combination of being overly sentimental AND a pack rat, a trait I see passed on to my son.

We painstakingly moved my mother’s heirloom china cabinet into my parents-in-law’s house for long-term storage until a future time when I could get it to Seattle. I was so grateful for his decades’ worth of experience as a roadie: we managed to load and unload the fragile piece of furniture in the middle of Wisconsin winter (picture us carrying a bulky, heavy mass with curved glass sides across icy walkways and stairs) without incident. We accomplished all the priorities of that trip in a very short amount of time, and we made plans for how to deal with the sale of Mom’s mobile home once I was back home. I didn’t even have to ask, Uncle Bob just told me he’d come back to Marinette once I could arrange for a dumpster to be delivered within a time frame that fit his work schedule. He’d bring a friend with him to finish emptying out the house, after which I would have a realtor friend get it listed. Thanks to the effort by Uncle Bob and his friend Andrew, I didn’t have to fly back yet again, letting me off a gigantic hook. They drove from Midland and spent just one day bringing items to Goodwill and throwing the rest into the dumpster, which got filled exactly to the brim. After that intense push to empty out an entire life’s worth of stuff, they made the long drive back to Midland the next day. Note the loyal devotion my uncle inspired in his friends; Andrew was helping me, someone he’d never met, because his buddy Bob needed him to. This also says a lot about the quality of Uncle Bob’s friends. I’m sure items were tossed into that dumpster I would have wanted to keep, but that’s the price I willingly paid to have it taken care of so efficiently. And I honestly don’t know what I’m missing. At least I have the few mementos I’d pulled aside when I was there moving Mom into Luther Manor. Uncle Bob shipped me what I couldn’t fit in my checked luggage — including a heavy cast iron fireplace accessory set — never asking to be reimbursed. What would I have done without Uncle Bob during those stressful days? I have no idea.

Just six months later, I needed to move Mom once again from assisted living to the nursing home wing; her condition had deteriorated rapidly, and she needed a higher level of care. I told Uncle Bob to sit this one out since the move would be easier for me to manage as it was just down the hall and I was blessed yet again with Kortney’s help. As chance would have it, he had his own crisis that week: his first heart attack, the Johns family specialty. He saw the writing on the wall and made great efforts to get healthier. He knew better than anyone that his genetic code was like playing Russian roulette — the odds aren’t good.

The last time I made an emergency trip to Wisconsin was at the end of my Mom’s life in the spring of 2015. She was hospitalized and unstable, but we weren’t certain how dire the situation was. I booked a 10-day trip, knowing I could adjust as needed. Uncle Bob, of course, drove from Midland and planned to have three days with us; he had some work commitments that just couldn’t move but it was better than nothing. We spent endless hours waiting for the doctors to appear with any kind of update; if you’ve ever experienced having a hospitalized loved one, you understand that this waiting game is a particularly agonizing form of purgatory. One evening, after hoping to see one of the specialists all day without an appearance from him, we gave up and went out for dinner. We swung by the hospital afterwards to check on Mom and say goodnight to her. In the parking lot, we spotted the doctor we’d been waiting for heading to his car at the end of his shift. Uncle Bob half walked, half ran towards him, waving his arm frantically above his head as he yelled, “Hello! Hang on a minute!” I loved him so much in that moment. I probably would have fallen back on my socialized female politeness and just let the doctor slip away, but Uncle Bob was going to get me my answers. The specialist was very nice and spoke with us for 10 minutes about my Mom’s status. I was satisfied and ready to let the poor guy go home after his long day at work, but hearing an accent in the doctor’s voice, Uncle Bob just couldn’t resist asking, “So, where are you from?” I yanked him away as quickly as I possibly could.

Two weeks later, my mom died. Little brother Bob had lost his second sister. We were all back together for yet another funeral, one year after my brother’s, three years after his oldest sister Florence Ann’s (Melody and Cynthia’s mom.) It felt like déjà vu. Uncle Bob was determined the next time we got together, it would NOT be for a funeral.

The following year, 2016, he invited me and my cousins to Michigan to check off several important boxes on his list with us. The trip was planned to be part business, part vacation. I’m typically the logistics coordinator when I travel, but this was Uncle Bob’s show and he owned the itinerary. We flew to Detroit (me from Seattle, Melody & Cynthia from D.C.) and Uncle Bob picked us up. From there, it was a whirlwind of sightseeing around Midland, the town we’d been to infrequently as kids when visiting our grandmother but also holds a crucial spot in my personal history as the place where my parents met and got married before moving to Wisconsin. Uncle Bob set aside one day for the business errands: we hopped around town to our scheduled appointments with lawyers to discuss their (yet to be completed) wills and health care directives, the office of the philanthropic community non-profit where we hoped to establish a donor-advised family fund named after my grandparents, and both sets of financial advisors (they didn’t believe in putting their nest egg all in one basket.) Since Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue didn’t have children, we all knew it would fall to us along with Aunt Sue’s family to take care of their estate when they were gone. I appreciated the forward-thinking as all of us on that trip had been through it with our own parents (and in my case, also my brother) and knew how heavy such a task is.

The day was long, and there were some emotional moments. Sitting around a giant conference table in oversized, overly rolling executive chairs, the attorney went over their estate planning documents to get us up to speed on where they were in the process to date. When she read a list of heirs that included both my mother and brother (it had been over two years since filling out the planning forms,) Uncle Bob responded in the familiar-to-me tactic of choking back tears with a smile, clearing his throat in a futile attempt to keep his voice from cracking as he said, “Well, I guess that shows how long ago we filled out those forms. Edith Lou and A.J. are [long pause as he held his breath] gone.” He pointed across the table at me, unable to say more. Tears filled my eyes as I employed the same Johns mannerism of smiling to hold them back. (This never actually works, by the way.) I stared up at the acoustic panels of the drop ceiling and took slow, deep breaths. I was looking back at my losses and planning for future ones that day. In that moment, I felt how deeply Uncle Bob’s losses cut him, and witnessing his pain always broke my heart. It was hard getting through all those appointments, knowing we were preparing for the time when they’d be gone. I was really proud of Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue, though, for taking these steps to communicate their wishes so we’d know what to do for them. Not everyone is as brave or selfless enough to face down their mortality.

There were plenty of happy memories made during that trip, too. Aunt Sue is a huge baseball fan, and they were season ticket holders for the minor league Midland Loons’ home games. As a special treat for our visit, Uncle Bob reserved a table in the indoor viewing box and bar. They pointed out their usual seats — “This is where we typically sit with all the other commoners!” — and we took their traditional pregame walk around stadium grounds together before settling in to watch the game in VIP style. Up until Covid canceled the 2020 season, every time Uncle Bob was in that viewing box for whatever reason, he would text the three of us a picture letting us know the current status of “‘our’ table,” which never failed to make me smile. I loved that he thought of us whenever he looked at that spot. The team was playing well, drinks were flowing, we were eating fried Midwest staples and overall having a great time. Near the end of 5th inning, Uncle Bob put his camera around his neck and started pacing around, excited energy rolling off him like a kid on Christmas Eve. “Keep your eyes on the scoreboard, girls,” he directed. Not sure what to expect, we did as we were told. Advertisements for local businesses scrolled past, and then suddenly, there it was: the message “Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue welcome Melody, Cynthia & Carole!” flashed on the screen. Uncle Bob was SO excited, even though obviously he knew it was coming — he made it happen, after all — snapping pictures furiously while saying, “Look! See it?” My cousins and I were incredibly touched that he would go to such an effort to make us feel so special. It really sunk in how much it meant for the five of us to be there together.

The main event was a road trip from Midland to Mackinac Island, their favorite place on earth. On the drive north, we made a pit stop at Central Michigan University, where Uncle Bob was the part-time operations engineer for the School of Broadcast and Cinematic Arts in his semi-retirement. He loved that job, solving problems alongside his colleagues and passing along his expertise to the students who shared his passion for producing quality audio and visual content. He was so proud to show us around his stomping grounds, and he was sure to point out one of the walls near his office on the tour. The institutional cinder block had been boring beige, but he’d had the idea to have it painted with the rainbow static pattern that used to appear after broadcasting ended for the night on TV stations before 24/7 programming became the norm. The colorful, graphic rectangles gave an added visual punch to the workspace, and he eagerly looked to my reaction as a designer. “I love it,” I assured him, “It’s really fun. Great idea, Uncle Bob!”

The drive up north continued. I had chuckled when Uncle Bob told me what to expect regarding accommodations on the trip: I’d be getting an air mattress in their den as well as the roll away bed in the hotel room I’d share with my cousins, plus I would get the middle backseat (aka the “hump”) for the hundreds of miles we’d be driving. Why? Because I was the youngest, and those are “the rules,” never mind I was a 40-year-old woman at the time. But actually, I was fine with it. It made me smile that Uncle Bob viewed the three of us as “kids.” We took the ferry to Mackinac Island, a ridiculously quaint spot that sits where Lakes Michigan and Huron meet. There are no motorized vehicles allowed on the island, so the modes of transportation are horse-drawn carriages, bikes or your own two feet. It’s certainly a unique place by U.S. standards; I’ve never seen so many Americans on bikes as I did that week. Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue spent their honeymoon on the island in 1981 and visited frequently since then. They had their favorite traditions, and we were up for whatever they had in store for us. We did it all that trip: dinner and drinks on the patio at The Pink Pony (it’s such a favorite, we did that a couple times;) enjoying a Big Porch Ale while sitting in the rocking chairs of The Grand Hotel on the world’s longest wooden porch; more drinks (the obligatory gin & tonic) upstairs in the hotel’s Cupola Bar; biking the 8-mile loop around the island; and finally the big splurge: a 5-course dinner back at The Grand, where there’s a dress code of suit coats and ties for men and dresses or pantsuits for the ladies after 6:30.

We were all in our polished best that night as we were seated in the elegant dining room. Our waiter — a career hospitality professional from the Caribbean working his 19th summer on Mackinac who gave us impeccable service — stopped my uncle before he sat down to shake his hand, congratulating him on his good fortune to be accompanied by four such lovely women. It was extremely charming, and Uncle Bob was tickled pink. Waving away his nieces as if we were chopped liver, he pointed to Aunt Sue and bragged about how lucky he was to be her husband, all of which was rightly so.

We’d had our picture taken by the hotel photographer on the porch before heading inside for dinner. Early the next morning, Uncle Bob called our room and asked me to walk back to The Grand so I could help him pick the best option to purchase. (We were staying at a smaller hotel that week. Uncle Bob kept joking he was spending our inheritance on this trip, but even so The Grand Hotel was outside the budget for five of us.) As we reviewed the proofs with the photographer, Uncle Bob couldn’t resist bragging to her that I work for Starbucks corporate headquarters in the creative department. He couldn’t have been more proud of me, and I loved seeing him beam over my accomplishments. I craved his approval so much when I was little, and as an adult he made it clear I had it. In the years since my brother and mom died, he’d surprise me with offhand comments that revealed his respect for me, while astute observations let me know that he really knew me as a person. He told me I was a good writer. He boasted on Facebook about my professional success. He thought I was a great wife and mom. As a total mama’s boy, having him approve of how I was raising my son meant a lot to me. He thought the world of my husband, who he proudly referred to as “Dr. Case” in casual conversation from the moment Michael finished his PhD. (It’s important to mention that Uncle Bob was the closest thing to having a father-in-law Michael experienced.) His marriage was built on such a strong foundation, and the fact Uncle Bob felt Michael and I were on similar footing was comforting. I’m in no way competitive with my cousins and we each have our special qualities that Uncle Bob was equally fond of, but I’m not going to lie: when he dragged me out of bed to help him pick out that photograph, I couldn’t help but be delighted that I might be his “favorite,” at least for that morning anyway.

Our last night on the island, there was one final box to check off of Uncle Bob’s list. The whole reason for going to Mackinac, according to him, was for them to show us the place where we were to scatter their ashes someday. When I told people about that reason, many reacted with a grimace and commented on the morbidity of such an endeavor. Acknowledging that death is coming for all of us makes most people uncomfortable, but the five of us were pragmatic. We three girls wanted to make sure we got it right for them. We flagged down a carriage and headed to a far-flung part of the island. It was really important to Uncle Bob that we get to the spot in time to watch the sunset, and we were pushing our luck. He kept checking his watch, but horses only go as fast as they feel like going. It was the end of their workday and they didn’t have much pep in their steps. We clip-clop, clip-clopped our way through the woods as dusk approached. When we got to our destination, Bob quickly paid the driver and was barreling down the path like a speed-walking linebacker. We giggled at his burst of energy and he craned his head backwards, cajoling us to hurry up. “We might just make it!” he puffed, followed a few minutes later by, “Ah, shit…” when he realized we weren’t going to. The walk to our destination took about five minutes, and when we emerged from the woods to a clearing on the bluff, a dim red horizon above the water greeted us. We’d missed sunset by eight minutes. There were some teenagers hanging out, one of whom had a guitar and they were singing like they were at their own personal summer camp bonfire. Off to the side, another tourist had an impressive camera on a tripod. Forever a gear guy, Uncle Bob started chatting him up (“Hey, where are you from?”) and the photographer showed us the frames of the sun going down he’d captured moments before. It had been a stunning display, and we at least caught a glimpse of it on the tiny viewing screen of his SLR camera. As I’ve mentioned, Uncle Bob made friends everywhere he went, and he exchanged business cards with the photographer. A few weeks later, we got an email saying, “Remember the guy with the Canon camera I was talking to?? He sent me these.” The attached images were a keepsake of the sunset we only experienced thanks to Uncle Bob’s tenacity and this stranger’s thoughtful follow-through. Now that he’s gone, a photo I snapped on our race-walk to the bluff has taken on new meaning: Uncle Bob forging forward, several paces ahead, while my aunt and cousins form a triangle behind him. All of their backs are to me as I bring up the rear, quietly documenting that moment. He was so determined to show us where he wanted his remains to end up that evening. I carry that determination now, even though I have no idea when I’ll be able to walk down that path again in order to fulfill his wishes, or who will be by my side. Until then, I will keep coming back to this photograph as a reminder.

When I took a sabbatical in 2019, one of the experiences I wanted to ensure happened was bringing my son and niece to Mackinac Island with Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue. Since Michael wasn’t able to join us, I also invited Kortney, who has become an honorary member of our family. We did all the things: the Pink Pony, the historic fort, the fudge shops, the bike ride around the island, bringing photos from 80’s era Mackinac trips to the spots they were originally taken so we could snap a photo of the photo lined up to the current scene (I’d introduced him to this peak nostalgia exercise on our last trip to the island, and being such a sentimental guy, he loved it.) Everywhere we went, Uncle Bob pointed out “Somewhere in Time” filming locations, a movie from 1980 which Kortney, Kieran and Allie had never seen. On both our trips there, Uncle Bob — truly a hopeless romantic — insisted we stop at the “Is it you?” tree to recreate a scene from the movie with Aunt Sue, who would laugh and ask, “Why?,” but went along with it anyway.

As always though, the main highlight of the trip was our time exploring the grounds at The Grand Hotel. We noticed a labyrinth on the map, which was of interest to both Kieran and me, so we walked towards the pool area to check it out. Upon learning that it would be an additional $20 per person to gain access to the pool and labyrinth — we’d already dropped $10 a person to experience the porch and the lawn, plus our drinks at the Cupola Bar — I balked and said, “Thanks anyway!” Uncle Bob and I were both committed to living it up that week, tourist trap prices be damned, but even we had our limits. Walking away from the hotel employee who had burst our labyrinth bubble, Uncle Bob joked, “I appreciate that The Grand doesn’t bother with nickel-and-dime’ing their guests. They skip right to ten-and-twenty’ing you.” We all laughed at that; nothing could get him down when he was on Mackinac Island with the people he loved.

It turns out the day we parted on that trip was to be the last time I saw Uncle Bob. Kieran, Allie, Kortney and I took a carriage to the ferry dock and boarded the boat heading to St. Ignace on the Upper Peninsula. Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue rode their bikes to catch the ferry to Mackinaw City on the Lower Peninsula a bit after us. From the top deck of our boat, we saw them approach and waved wildly. “Bon voyage!” we yelled. I snapped a picture of them on the dock, and Uncle Bob frantically pulled out his camera to capture us. We both just couldn’t help but document every single moment, just like his mother used to do. He gave me a relentlessly hard time about inheriting this particular Johns trait and called me “Anna May” every time I slowed down his progress by taking too many pictures. But we both knew he was just as bad, and in actuality he loved that I upheld the family tradition. One year and six weeks later, scrolling incessantly through my phone’s camera roll from that trip, I’m realizing there could never have been enough photos of our times together.

On August 31st, Aunt Sue was at an oncology appointment; she’d been undergoing chemo all summer. Uncle Bob had gone to pick up some sod since he couldn’t go to the appointment with her due to Covid restrictions. I don’t have many details, but a fireman found him slumped over the steering wheel on the side of the road. This unknown helper called 911 and did CPR until the ambulance came. My maternal grandfather, Allen Johns, died from his third heart attack while waiting at a gate in O’Hare airport, a fact Uncle Bob would remind me about after he experienced his first and second heart attacks. My mother also had two heart attacks; her second one happened while visiting her brother in their hometown. When Uncle Bob called me that day, the first words out of his mouth where, “We’ve got a problem with your mother.” And then once again, we had the same problem with him. I found myself reliving the anxious waiting for someone I love, lying in a hospital far away, to die. Considering both his family’s and his personal health history, it shouldn’t have taken me so off guard, but it did. The unexpected suddenness of being sucked under waves of sadness and worry was disorienting. Following the heart attack, he was unresponsive. For the first 48 hours, his brain function was unknown as he wasn’t stable enough to run tests. The evening of the attack, his heart stopped again but he was revived by CPR. This brought up my complicated feelings about invasive, presumptive attempts to “save” lives in the hospital. I realize it’s the health care professionals’ job and there would likely be lawsuits if they didn’t act. But at a certain point, you have to ask whether what they’re trying to save is even possible. Afterwards, I was relieved to hear that Aunt Sue gave a DNR (do not resuscitate) directive if his heart was to stop again. This time around felt very dire; I didn’t have much hope that he’d be able to recover to his former quality of life. I knew I was being pessimistic, which might seem like I was hoping for him to just die already. Nothing could be further from the truth, but who wants to watch someone they love suffer? I did exactly that for over sixteen years between my father, mother and brother. I learned that as hard as it is to let someone go, it can be harder for them to have to stay and be tortured by their broken bodies.

In my feeble attempt to hold on to a bit of hope as days ticked by with little progress, I tried picturing him being able to open his eyes, look at his wife of 39 years, smile, and hear her say “I love you” one more time. I desperately wanted that for both of them despite the high cost. Also, I wrote many of these words during those five days and I selfishly wanted him to wake up long enough to be able to read them for himself. I wondered, too late, if I’d done and said enough to let him know how much I love him, how much I appreciate him, and how important he is to me while he was still here. I know as well as anyone who’s experienced great loss to not take the ones I love for granted; I can only hope I didn’t leave too much unspoken with him.

Uncle Bob died early in the morning of Sept. 5th; that day also would have been my father’s 75th birthday. After hearing the news from my cousins and crying over the phone with them, I spent a majority of that afternoon searching for a picture from his wedding, looking at every single photograph I have stored in three shoe boxes, the remnants of my family’s lifetime of experiences. There is no other forgotten hiding spot, no album tucked away somewhere in Wisconsin. If it’s not in those shoe boxes, it’s gone. I was desperate to look at the photo I knew so well I could describe it in perfect detail, though I hadn’t seen it in years: my Uncle Bob is sitting at a table at his wedding reception. He’s on the left side of the frame, in his wedding suit, his back towards the camera. His head is turned to the right, and you see his profile. He has shaggy, thick brown hair and a solid brown beard. I am standing at his side, also faced away from the camera. I am five years old, wearing white Mary Jane’s, white socks trimmed in ruffled lace folded over at my ankles, and a sundress with a short pink skirt and white top with pink spaghetti straps. My long brown hair is pulled up into a high bun, which my mother had pinned flowers around, and my bangs are long and straight. I basically look like an American Girl doll whose storyline is set in 1981. The wedding photographer caught the sweet moment I leaned towards my uncle to kiss his cheek. It’s such a small thing, this photograph, and I found many other images from that day, but not the one I was looking for. It made me cry with frustration. “I want to find it so badly, but I can’t,” I spluttered to Michael through tears. As I said the words, I realized what I really wanted was for Uncle Bob to still be here, but he wasn’t. I hated bothering Aunt Sue about such a little thing in her time of acute grief, but against my better judgment I emailed her to ask if she might have a copy of the photo. She responded that she would keep her eyes out for it, and a week later she texted to say she’d found it in a random box and would mail it to me. It was such a relief to open that package and gaze at the familiar image. I remember the day after my wedding, my mom told me Uncle Bob had wanted to recreate that photo with me in my wedding dress, kissing him on the cheek. I had been rather militant about the shot list and keeping our photographer on schedule so he hadn’t brought it up, knowing better than to stress out the bride. (We didn’t have a wedding planner or anyone tapped to run the day, so Michael and I took on the task. For what it’s worth, I don’t recommend being the day-of coordinator at your own wedding.) I wish he’d mentioned the idea to me; we’re both suckers for recreating old family photos and I would’ve loved to have made it happen.

Speaking of our wedding, I asked Uncle Bob to be our designated AV guy, which of course he agreed to. He commandeered 600 feet of extension cords from work in order to provide power for the keyboard, microphone and speakers at the spot where our outdoor ceremony was to be held and cajoled our oldest nephews to run all those cords through the woods just in time for the rehearsal. We awoke the morning of the wedding to find an inch of snow on the ground, and it was still falling. Forever a resourceful roadie, Uncle Bob reconfigured the sound system inside the small lodge where we moved the ceremony to. “I don’t think the bagpipers are going to need a mic!” he joked when he reported back to me that everything was taken care of. That was just one of the countless times Bob Johns saved the day.

Lastly, I need to recognize that I didn’t just lose an uncle with his passing, but a good friend. We shared a love of cooking that was surpassed only by our love of eating. Most of our texts to each other had to do with food: what we’d cooked or were about to eat, and where. Scrolling through the end of our text thread, there’s a recipe for shrimp scampi linguine, his method for flash freezing corn, a photo of the sourdough loaf baked by my friend, and mention of a mixed berry jam he liked from a favorite breakfast spot in Mackinaw City. “If we go back I’ll get you one,” was his last message to me.

Both of us being night owls, he was prone to late-night internet rabbit holes. I’d wake to find emails timestamped in the wee hours of the night east coast time with the subject line, “Found this on the ‘net,” which points to the fact his enthusiasm for life and curiosity about the world never waned. I saw a New Yorker cartoon nine days after he died that made me instantly think of Uncle Bob: the cartoonist Brendan Loper shows a man sitting up in bed, looking at the bedside clock while his wife sleeps next to him. The caption reads, “Wow, it’s only eleven — that still leaves time for me to ruin tomorrow by staying up doing nothing on the Internet.” I chuckled and was about to text it to him before remembering I couldn’t. That’s the thing when a loss is so fresh: it’s hard to believe that he’s not here anymore. It doesn’t help that we haven’t been able to have the ceremonial good-bye’s which help make it sink in. I know I’ll always have these moments of seeing something that will make me think, “I need to share this with Uncle Bob.” Presently, they feel like paper cuts: sharp and shocking that such a small thing can sting so badly, and surprising how long the pain lingers. But I know, eventually, I will be able to meet such moments with a heartfelt smile and I will be happy for the reminder that he’s right here with me.

The last live show I experienced before Covid was in November 2019 at the Death and Music concert hosted by KEXP’s John Richards; this was the second time I’d attended the annual event. A combination of storytelling and live music, both the performers and audience come together to appreciate how music heals grief and to feel that we’re not alone. As the crowd shuffled out afterwards, I asked the guy who had been sitting next to me if he’d ever been to the event before. (Recounting this story makes me feel rather sheepish: I shouldn’t give Uncle Bob such a hard time about his “Where are you from?” line. Clearly, I’m just as prone to force my friendship onto strangers.) He replied, “No. It was more impactful than I expected. I didn’t think I had any more tears left, but I guess I do.” Being further down my grief path, I replied sympathetically, “Oh, I’m so sorry…but there will always be more tears to shed.” I was thinking of those words the morning I sobbed for the third straight day since hearing my dear, sweet uncle was gone. What it comes down to is this: as long as there is love in each beat of your heart, there will also be the potential for more tears. I miss him so much, but I’m nothing but grateful to have had the best Uncle Bob a girl could ask for.