Uncle Frank

There are some things in this life that just make me stop and reflect. Take for instance the fact that, while I grew up, my family lived in the East while the rest of our relatives were in the West. I never got to know them as much as I would have liked. I think I missed out on a lot of terrific relationships.

I loved growing up out here, though. We were some of the only members of the Church in our school and I think it helped mold a stronger testimony. I instantly fell in love with the mountains, too, and now crave their presence when I'm away. Even on my mission I pleaded with my mission president to send me to a place with mountains. The pampas just made me feel so lonely.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, but only in the East. The mountains in Virginia are just so pretty at that time of year. You just don't have the same seasons on Left Coast as you do here.

We moved away from Salt Lake when I was five or so, and except for a few years in college, I never moved back. Those years at BYU were some of the best of my life, but being so far away from home like that taught me a few things and made me appreciate others. Like family, for instance.

My Uncle Frank died a few days ago. The first thing I think I remember about missionaries was Frank coming home from his mission and staying with us for a few days in New Jersey. I guess he'd flown into one of the New York airports and had some time to visit. I must have been all of 8 or 9 and I was awed by the sight of a real missionary who was related to me. He was the first I'd ever seen. A few years after Frank's visit, another uncle, my Uncle Ron, did the same thing.

Later, when I was a teenager, we'd drive out to Utah and stay at grandma and grandpa's house on 7th East and 9th South. Frank was always there, scrunching up his nose and cheek that way he did to scootch his glasses up further on his face. He was a cool uncle, the kind you always hope you'll be when you grow up. All of my uncles are like that. I've always thought the world of them.

Frank was there when I left for my mission, too. As I remember, he came to the airport to see me off. He wrote me a few letters, which have long since been lost, but which offered encouragement and hope. And I knew he meant it, too, because I remembered that he'd been in those same Red Wing Postman shoes.

Being one of the first, if not THE first, in the family to get a graduate degree made Frank an example to the rest of us who followed behind. When I started going to Radford for my Master's degree, I often thought of him and what an inspiration he was. I clearly remember looking at a picture in mom and dad's photo albums of him in his cap and gown. I wanted to be like that, too, and so I was.

A couple of divorces, death in the family and a couple of health problems whitened Frank's hair up long before his time. But when I saw him last, despite all of his troubles, he still pulled out one of those genuine smiles for me. And I loved him for it.

I just wish I'd gotten to know him better.


(Photos thanks to Frank's son, Martin's, Facebook page)