I truly loved him, as did everyone who ever were lucky enough to become his friend.
I'd met my future wife well over 20 years ago and once things turned serious, dread set in because it became time to meet the...gulp...dreaded future in-laws.
I'd been down that path before and the results weren't pretty. So when we pulled into the McQueen driveway for the first time, I saw a sign out front that said, "Funny Farm." It didn't exactly signal an easy ride.
I thought, "What fresh hell is this?" I imagined all kinds of insanity, all sorts of dysfunction, cray-cray bleeding off the walls like some outtake from Kubrick's The Shining.
But it was amazing. "Funny Farm" more than lived up to the title in a good way. Laughter was a way of life for this caring and giving family. Sure, the comedy sometimes came up on the short side of vaudeville shtick, but by cracky, this family loved one another, made each other laugh (constantly!), and appeared to actually enjoy one another's company. They weren't just going through the obligatory, familial necessities, griping inwardly until the current holiday of hell was completed. It was refreshing.
Leading the family love and merriment was Van, the patriarch. It astounded me--no, it shocked me--that he and his wonderful wife, Patricia, accepted me, warts and all, into their family. And, damn I have warts, practically a leper. Immediately, I'd become indoctrinated into the Funny Farm as one of them. Bring on the white coats, I shouted!
Surely, I thought, it couldn't have been easy for Van to welcome me into the family. I mean, c'mon, I'm a big, dopey, awkward, bald guy who looks like Uncle Fester on a happy day, not exactly any father's dream of their only daughter's life choice of a partner. But accept me they did. No questions asked.
Later, I found out that was Van's character to everyone who hovered within his orbit. Man, the guy was full of love and sharing and helping out others in need. A trait he passed onto my exceptional wife and her bros.
Likewise, Van and Patricia immediately accepted my daughter into their family as one of theirs as well. (Truth be told, though, I kinda think Van warmed up to my daughter before me. That's okay, I woulda picked her over me, too!) For crying out loud, once Van and Patricia found out my daughter had a penchant for blowing up cars, they fixed one of theirs up and gave it to her. Van's generosity extended to material goods as well as being a gracious, sharing person of spirit. (Aside to my daughter: quit blowing up cars!)
Sure, Van and I went through a couple prickly moments, most of them regarding my use of the toilet in their small house. Toilets were important to both of us, a trait we shared.
Once while taking my afternoon constitutional at the Funny Farm, I overheard Van say (and it's not hard to hear in the small house), "Dammit, every time I need to use the bathroom, he's in there!" Well...it wasn't true, but maybe seemed like it. Hey, I eat like a king when I'm visiting there. Okay, okay, maybe it was true.
Which lead me to wonder (while pondering on the toilet), how in the world did a family of five live together in such a compact house, use a single bathroom, and still not murder one another during all of those years? I mean, my wife went through the hours of long prep of big-hair stage back in the day.
The answer is simple: love and laughter. Van gave and got in equal doses, his wonderful cackle of a laugh shaking the timbers of the house and spreading the mirth like wildfire.
I was so happy that a lot of the family got to have one last hurrah at a friend's cabin last Summer, my first foray into camping. Van found it quite hilarious how I thought what we were doing was camping. He regaled me with tales about how his father and father-in-law took him on a torturous-sounding camping trip where they froze in a tent, snickering that I wouldn't survive a minute. I had no doubt. But it made Van laugh, so I was more than happy to play the punchline. Hey, payback for all the laughs he'd supplied through the years.
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| The last camping trip. |
When Van entered the hospital, ailing, he wasn't eating. The nurse asked him if there was anything he'd like. He responded, hand held high, "a large Scotch and water."
At his grave-site, we--I am proud to be considered part of the family--toasted him with a shot of Scotch.
The world is slightly worse with the loss of Van, but I know he lives on, his generous, loving, and hilarious spirit enriching everyone whose path he crossed.
Love you and miss you, Van. Thanks for everything. I vow to use your toilet with the utmost of care.
Cheers.
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