As my older sibling reported on her blog, my oldest uncle died this week.  No one’s really surprised, as he’d been sick for quite some time.  Nonetheless, it’s sad.  Like my sister, I can’t look back on a summer weekend at the cottage without him quietly puttering away in the background, along with my dad, making sure everything worked that was supposed to, and keeping the place from falling down under the traffic of several dozen Italian relatives running in and out and all around.  He quietly kept an eye on things, and had a gift for doing it in such a way that you never KNEW he was watching. 

Until AFTER you’d been busted.

Like most of the men in the family, Farna could build you a working barbecue out of any six household objects.

He was a kind man, with a good sense of humour (Apparently a requirement if you’re going to marry a Botari woman.  I’m told we can be a handful, though personally, I don’t see it!) and a gentle nature.

I’m sad for my aunt as well, because it’s hard to lose someone you love, and harder still to watch them suffer, and she’s had to do both now.

I know, everything has a time, and everything dies.  It’s all part of the cycle of life.

But I’m a little sad, nonetheless.  It’s like losing a little piece of my childhood.

The funeral’s Monday, in Port Colbourne.

And I can’t go.