Uncle Phil

He was my grizzly bear. My protector. My heart. My little mountain that walked...

My Dad comes from a family of 12 brothers and sisters, the 13th of which my Grandma, who almost lived to see her 104th birthday, lost during childbirth. It was a big family, a farming family, and my Dad dropped out of school to help feed his siblings. Uncle Phil, or 'Little Mountain That Walks', as he was affectionately known, was my Dad's younger brother. They always had each other's backs. Growing up poor was not easy on mind, body or spirit, and they kept each other on track and off the wrong side of it, which tempted them often.

My Uncle Phil died too young. And so suddenly that for me, he's not gone. Car accidents will do that. Take people too soon as they are just going about their day with their family. I talk to him often. He talks to me. When I feel lost I immediately feel him around, comforting me while also giving me a swift kick in the pants. He's never left my side and he sometimes hails out of nowhere and shows up in a dream. I love him for that. He's still looking out for is big brother's little girl from the great beyond, helping keep me on the right side of the tracks now. Still protecting me like a grizzly, even in God's company.

He was a big man and could have been a master chef, but it was never meant for him in this lifetime I guess. Food responded to him somehow, and he spoke its language. When he would whip something up in the kitchen we would all be spellbound at the flavours he'd managed to glean from things. 'How the f*&^ did you DO that?' we'd try to say while stuffing ourselves with a mouthful of something we had never tasted before. It wasn't like he was using strange, exotic ingredients, he just seemed to have this innate ability to pair them all in such a way that created a dish you just didn't know could taste that good.

He had this funny, mischievous chuckle and he was a smart ass that loved getting the better of you. He taught me how to laugh through gritted teeth, how to toughen up through the toughest times, how to roar with laughter and rage in equal measure. He showed me how to be strong and soft and to show that side of yourself, that underbelly under the hard shell, only to those you trusted most in this world.

It's his voice I miss most. No, that's not true, it's his hugs too. And his smile. And his lovable gruffness. Even when he was giving you shit for being an idiot you still felt warmth pouring out of him. And his gentleness was as powerful as his anger. Uncle Phil was not a dude to be trifled with and it was the rare bird that was stupid enough to try to ruffle my uncle's feathers. He was a man who knew the searing potency of his anger and displayed it only on rare occasions. The misguided soul on the other side of it would invariably have his goose cooked and promptly served to him, ass first.

And his gentleness...I'll never forget one day when he and my Dad were out back tossing the football around. I was probably all of ten at the time and still very much trying to figure out who I was. Growing up around boys, having an older brother, and two strong male figures in my life tended to steer me more towards my toughness. I always felt as though I needed to prove myself and I didn't take kindly to being handled with kid gloves. So I was very offended when they wouldn't throw the football to me as hard as they were throwing it to one another. Finally, after much pestering from me, my uncle threw the ball towards me. It was a pro size football and made of rough, faded, pigskin. We'd had it for ages. Basically, it was a rock with stitching and in my fluster to be a superstar I was unprepared to receive it. The football slipped straight through my hands and landed squarely in my gut, knocking me down. As my Dad was making sure no serious damage was done my uncle came running and knelt down over me. He was crying. I'd never seen him do this before. His crisp blue eyes were overflowing. I was so shocked I immediately halted my tears. How could this great big guy that bikers would sidestep be crying?! But, he was hurt more than me. His heart had taken the real blow while I'd only received a punch in the gut. He was immeasurable kindness surrounded by muscle.

I wish he were still here. I miss his physical presence in my life. I miss him keeping an eye on my Dad and my brother, and they on him. I cry as I write because I feel that void so acutely these days. These days when I feel I could use a grizzly on guard more than ever before. But then I smile, and remind myself he's right there, still teaching me from afar to be my own brave bear.


Elisa Valentine