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My friend Jill called this morning, much to my surprise. I like to think of her as my friend, but I haven’t been a very good friend in return.

Just as I was thinking of updating my blog with some vague, un-gelled thoughts of Uncle George’s funeral, the phone rang, and there was Jill, just calling to chat. Without meaning to, she managed to focus my entire thought process for this entry.

Jill and I worked together at HBJ, which then became Edgell Communications, which then became Advanstar Communications, which is now partly Advanstar and partly HCL. (But I digress.) We always had an easy friendship, partly, I think, because we both understood the absurdity of most things, and we both liked to laugh. We were each laid off during a downsizing event in 1992, and since she lived in my neighborhood at that time, we stayed in touch by phone, or going for walks, or wandering down to Lester River to sit on the rocks and discuss all matters large and small. Those were fun times.

Once, while looking for some distraction from unemployment, we decided to attend a court hearing. I’m not sure how we chose the particular case we ended up viewing, though I remember it involved a lot of young men in prison garb, and one in particular who caught our eye. Not sure who started the giggling, but I’m going to blame it on Jill. Of course I couldn’t resist, and the quick telling of the story is that common courtesy demanded we leave the courtroom immediately (before the bailiff threw us out) and I remember walking out with my hand over my face. I’m pretty sure some people thought I was someone’s distressed parent in tears. It was my first and last court appearance.

But then Jill got a job, and I got a job, and she moved to another part of town, and our lives took different paths again. I missed her, but I was too lazy to do much about it. We became Christmas card friends. After a few years of “we should get together for lunch” notes, I felt guilty about my inaction, and wrote “You could do a lot better in the friend department.”

We once ran into one another at the Duluth Clinic, though not literally, which is a good thing. I was going in one door with a broken arm, and Jill was going out the other door with a broken ankle, so of course we had to stop and laugh about that, too. (It’s wonderful to have a friend who doesn’t see you for a few years at a time, but then you can catch up on stuff in about 2 minutes.)

So, my point. (And I really do have one.)

Stay in touch.

Stay in touch with the people who matter to you. Call them or write them or go to their homes, but make time to stay in touch with the people who matter to you. Don’t assume they will always be there, because they won’t.

This past weekend I attended the visitation and the funeral for my uncle George. I saw so many relatives that I no longer spend any time with. People who meant so much to me at one time (and who still do, of course) are now relegated to the occasional wedding, funeral, or Christmas card note. I heard stories about my uncle that I’d never heard before, and wished that I’d talked to him about them, but of course it is now too late. And that’s just how quickly everything is over.

My uncle, it turns out, kept all the cards and letters and photos that were ever sent to him. Imagine that treasure. (And I’m so glad I’m still a letter writer, at least, and kept in touch with him by sending occasional cards with family news.) He kept in touch with his friends and neighbors, and he kept in touch with his church, despite an alleged disagreement that kept him away for many years. The number of people who showed up for both services was overwhelming to me. Uncle George understood the importance of keeping in touch.

So contact someone you care about. Write a letter or make a phone call or do whatever you have to do to let them know you are still out there, still thinking of them, still caring. They will be gone way too soon.

If you are too busy to keep in touch with the people who matter to you, then you are simply too busy. Rearrange your schedule. Remind yourself of what matters.

And Jill, if you’re reading this, let’s REALLY have lunch some day soon. Really! I miss you.

My uncle George Swor died yesterday afternoon in St Luke’s Hospital in Duluth. He was 88 years old, my mother’s youngest brother, and the last survivor of her immediate family.

That hardly covers it. My uncle George was a one-of-a-kind family treasure.

I have a photo at my desk showing the Swor family in 1954, which includes my mother and her sister Katherine (my beloved Auntie Kay, whose recipes I sometimes publish) and their six brothers: Sam, Jack, Mitchell, Nick, Henry and George. I imagine in their youth, the Swor kids were a force to be reckoned with. When I was a kid, they were a happy, boisterous bunch, gathered at Grandma Swor’s house every Sunday for chicken dinner. I thought my uncles were marvelous. They all seemed strong and capable, with swarthy Mediterranean good looks, and they seemed to be joking and laughing all the time, which made us kids feel safe and protected, and part of Something Big.

All those people grew up and married, raised families, and then most of them died way too soon.

Uncle George and Aunt Betty raised four sons, while my parents raised four daughters. For some years our families lived across the street from one another on Fern Avenue in the Kenwood area. My sisters and I spent some time with our cousins, especially with Aunt Betty, who loaded up her navy blue Cadillac (she always drove a Cadillac) with all 8 of us, taking us swimming at Park Point or to a cabin at Lake Minnisuing in Wisconsin. While I remember her large metal Red Dot cans filled with peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies, I also remember Uncle George burying silver dollars in the sand for us kids to find.

I remember being in the car with my cousins when Uncle George would say “Hey, kids, let’s have a contest to see who can keep their eyes closed the longest!” I always wanted to win that contest. We only found out years later that he did this any time we were in the vicinity of a Dairy Queen. Other times he drove us over Superior’s “singing bridge,” always telling us to put one hand on the car’s ceiling and make a wish, because bridges were good luck.

Uncle George owned a Texaco station on Sixth Avenue East for many years, and during childhood I spent  happy hours there with my sisters and cousins, picking apples from the huge apple tree and throwing them (ineffectually) at passing traffic, or playing in the creek behind the station, into which my cousin Barbara was known to toss her much-hated eyeglasses. I can’t see a red Texaco symbol without thinking of my uncle in his dark green attendant’s uniform, running out of the station to clean windshields, check oil and fill gas tanks. (The man who wore the star is now among the stars.) Years later he opened a motel across the street from the station, which soon went from a regulation motel to a sort of shelter for local misfits. I doubt he collected as much in rent as he ”loaned” to others, but he helped so many with housing, transportation, food and protection from the elements. Despite his happy association with more than one snarling rottweiler, he was robbed at least once, and perhaps more than that, but he never lost his faith in humanity, and he never stopped helping anyone with a sad story.

My uncle never forgot his nieces. He was especially close with my cousin Barbara, sharing a love of adventure and gambling with her. They often traveled to Vegas together, and I’m sure each trip was memorable. Every Christmas my sisters and I received gifts from my uncle, even though we hadn’t spent much time with him, and in our later years there were always Christmas gifts of cash. Family meant the world to my sentimental uncle, and he never wavered from his love or loyalty.

Depsite the death of his brothers and sisters, and the early and unexpected death of his son Greg, my uncle soldiered on. He and my aunt separated in the late 1960, but never divorced. Though he lived alone, he was never really alone. He always had a smile for every person he met. Though I’m sure they must have happened, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t see my uncle smiling.

I didn’t see my uncle much in the past few years, a fact of which I am not proud. He was always accessible and I was not. The last time I saw him feeling well was at the last Swor Christmas party at the Depot in December. He always made you feel as if you were the very person he wanted to see at that very moment. His health was failing, but not his generous spirit, his wonderful smile, or his love of family and tradition.

And so last Wednesday, when he wasn’t feeling well, he had the presence of mind to call an ambulance for himself, and to call my cousin Barbara (my mother’s namesake) to let her know something was wrong. At the hospital he suffered a heart attack from which he was unable to recover, despite vigilant medical care and the love and prayers of family.

It is sad to know he is gone. But I think we are all relieved that he did not have to linger in a bedridden condition for days or weeks on end.

I wish I had a scan of a photo to post here so you could see his smiling face. But I don’t. I do have memories of him that will last the rest of my life.

Rest in peace, Uncle George.

We love you.

You can trust your car to the man who wears the star...