My dad called me yesterday while I was still at work (though he thought that I was already home because it was 6pm). My parents never call - especially if I’m at work - because they don’t want to “bother” me, so I knew that it was something pretty serious. So I answered and my dad told me that my uncle had been RUN OVER BY A DUMP TRUCK AND KILLED!
You guys. I don’t even know how to feel about this! I mean, of course I’m shocked and saddened. I feel so incredibly sad for my aunt and cousins.
But I guess the thing is - you live to be 84 years old - and his was a pretty hard life of drinking in his early years (he drank so much that he didn’t even remember me at my grandma’s funeral after he’d gotten clean and sober) - spend about the last 20 years of your life turning things around by quitting your vices and being a good husband and father…and then…BOOM. A dump truck hits you and kills you!
The end.
I suppose you could say that he lived a life of purpose and left a legacy and all of that is great. He lived a long 84 years - a few years past the average life expectancy here in the US.
But damn. What a way to go.
I remember him as such a badass uncle with a pompadour and rolled up t-shirt sleeves, tattoos and jeans. When I was a kid, my family would go to his house in the country and ride horses (I was scared, but I’d sit in the saddle in front of my mom while she did all the work), and he’d ride the unruly horses who’d rear up. He’d ride with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a drink in one hand. Such a cool dude.
At his request, there won’t be a funeral. Just, that’s all, folks.
RIP, Uncle Don.
xox,
GS
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