An authors thoughts after a recent death in the family.

My family used to be huge. While my mother had no brother or sister my dad's parents had 12 children, six boys and six girls. All of the boys joined up during World War II and a couple, like my dad, also went off to Korea. Funny none of them like to talk about their experiences and never joined the VFW. Unlike many other vets they would usually answer in short sentences when the kids would inquire about their war days. Years later my dad would tell me that he saw US troops use flame throwers on Japanese troops, he saw suicide bombers swoop down out of the sky and try to hit the ship he was on with tracer bullets lighting up the sky. But he never liked to talk about those days and certainly never bragged about his "kills". One of my dad's brothers, also fighting in the Pacific, had to kill an enemy soldier who was about his same age--18 or 19--in hand to hand combat. This incident was never brought up in my uncles presence.

When I was a kid I remember great summer family gatherings in Southern California. Many of my aunts and uncles also had large families so a clan gathering meant an easy 100 people at someone's home. One such gathering resulted in the LA police helicopter circling overhead with its searchlight trained on the seething mass expecting a riot in progress when, in reality, it was a Varner cookout.

Over the years I lost touch with these events. I had moved about 600 miles away from the rest of the family and while I got periodic updates on births, marriages, divorces, illnesses and death I always believed that the Varner clan was simply expanding. Lately though I realize I was very much mistaken. Of my 11 aunts and uncles several had passed on from heart disease and cancer, one by murder. This weekend I lost yet another uncle. The youngest of the group. I remember him when I was younger as a big, robust man with a ready smile and a fondness for talk. A few years ago I saw him after suffering the effects of Parkinsons. He was gaunt, gray haired, unable to talk very much and extremely fragile. I guess his death affects me more than some of the others because he was the youngest and I loved to play with his children back in those early Southern California days. His daughter is now grown with children of her own. I was "reunited" with her during that same visit when I had seen the deteriorating condition of my uncle.

Of the 12 brothers and sisters less than half remain. One thing that has struck me though at each of their deaths is the approach that they all took, as they were about to pass into the Summerland. It was reported that, as they lay dying, they saw friends and family members who had previously died troop through their room. My aunt or uncle would say that they looked forward to being with them again…and that Summerland was a place of beauty. My uncle said to his nurses a few days ago that his mother and father were coming to visit him. My grandparents have both been dead for over 20 years. While some said that he was hallucinating I believe he was simply stating a fact.

One thing that all of this reminds me of is that family is important. While it would be much nicer to be able to see family members often what is also important is that we have good memories to share. Important that we can recall the bright smiles, the laughter, the stories told--and we can smile again at the memory.

I will miss my uncle—as I do all of my family members who have left. But sometimes the sadness kindles fires of life and make one realize that he or she should be happy with those fond memories and we all have the option, no rather the duty, to make the memories of our children as happy as ours.