My Uncle Charlie died last week. He was 101, and had lived a long and relatively healthy life. At 100, he beat me fair and square at cribbage. When my brother said, “Wow! You beat her!” he said, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Over his lifetime, Uncle C wore many hats: a school janitor and bus driver… part-time farmer with a few cows… a veteran of WW II… and caregiver to his wife through 40 years of Parkinson’s. People thought this last was incredible. He didn’t. He’d married her for better or for worse, hadn’t he?

I knew all those things about Uncle C , but his impact on me was for something else. When I was 15, our family moved to France and I was catapulted into a culture and a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t belong or know how to make friends.

Uncle C and Aunt L had always sent me birthday cards, but when we moved to the other side of the ocean, they began sending a letter with the card. I suspect Aunt L was behind it, reminding him, but he wrote the letters. For over 25 years Uncle C wrote me one letter a year.

There was never any earth-shattering news in them. My birthday is in March, so every year he said he looked forward to digging in his garden instead of shoveling snow. He mentioned birthday parties, updated me on everyone’s health, and said he had coffee and played cards with his buddies every day at the store (There was only one).

Uncle C’s often made me laugh:

Get even? Did D have poor taste in restaurants?

Another year, he told me of a new pet:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What color was the cat, I wondered. Did it live in the barn? In the house? What happened to the kittens? I was never told.

Then there’s my all-time favorite:

I loved Uncle C’s letters. My birthdays were never truly over until I received them. They weren’t long – a few lines scratched out on notebook paper – but they made me feel special.

It’s said that we need to give children roots and wings. Uncle C helped give me roots. His letters reminded me that even though I lived far away, I had a family that remembered and loved me. That I belonged.