UM

That's "UM" as in Uncle Mike, not "um......"

Although, truth be told, I've been saying the later quite a bit as Libby and I attempt to sort through what remains of my Uncle's life.

It's interesting getting a chance to look at a life after someone has vacated it. His living room was filled with classic Uncle Mike things, from his art supplies, a Renaissance harp and music books, posters upon posters of faeries and wolves and women...And the swords. Yeah. That was my Uncle Mike. It's hard to look at our lives and believe I belong to the Grant family, that I belong mixed in with this motley, unsavory bunch. Looking at me and my life now you wouldn't guess I grew up around pot smoking, drinking, leftover hippies--or that I could type that sentence with a nostalgic smile. But I did. On both counts.

We used to joke that there were two Uncle Mikes. The Old One and the New One. The Old Uncle Mike was a stand-in father for both Libby and I growing up. He took us to Children's Palace to pick out a toy--any toy--for our birthdays. He took us fishing, camping, hiking. He lived with our little family for years, he was.......well, he was Uncle Mike.

The New Uncle Mike was a tortured soul. Although he always had that signature "Grant" temper, in later years it seemed to become much more of a fixture. Grumpy, secluded, bitter. They're not fun descriptors, but they were accurate.

Old Uncle Mike taught me my love for and understanding of nature. He showed me my first glimpse of the North Shore and the BWCA. He brought me to church for the first time. He was a practical joker. He understood me in a way my mom and sister didn't. He gave me a place to fit within my Grant heritage. I saw him through that innocent lens of youth.

In my adulthood I often wondered whatever became of "Old Uncle Mike" the one attached to so many memories. And then, yesterday, going through the bits and pieces he left behind, Libby and I found his journal.

I opened the pages.....

......and there he was. The dreamer, the nature lover, the hidden optimist. Sure, it was mixed in between lots of talk of "his business" and who owed who, who'd stolen from him this week, who was cut down to X amount of ounces and would "just have to make do." Failed businesses, and how many more chances he'd give DR before letting him have it. We read the pages through tears and laughter, and when I closed the little worn brown leather cover I'd found him. He continually wrote about getting out of "that life", of a new beginning. He wrote he was tired of it all and of what he'd become. The undercurrent was sad--HE was sad, but somehow always optimistic, ready to "keep on keeping on." Ready to get Up North soon and go for a ride. He wrote how he felt he'd lost himself, lost happiness, lost everything. But it wasn't until reading those pages I found that the Uncle I thought I'd lost had still been there all along.

And so I say good-bye here. You often wondered whether people really were your friends, really loved you...

I love you, Uncle Mike. I'm glad you finally found peace.