I wanted to share a letter to my students regarding what happened today at the Malden Catholic Quiz Bowl. Despite the disappointment, I think that there is a much greater lesson to be learned here; sometimes, setbacks teach you more than triumphs.
Dear Parents,
Please share the following message with your children:
Imagine that we are the Patriots. We qualify for the Superbowl, but then
are not invited to the game. After the Superbowl, after everyone has
left the stadium, the officials recognize that they have made an error,
and that yes, the Pats should have won. They offer them a ring and an
apology, as an afterthought. It's just not the same as getting to play
in the game, right? To hear the roar of the crowd, to feel the
adrenaline pumping, to hold the trophy high in the air.
I am so sorry that you guys missed out on the opportunity to get the
public recognition that you deserve. I am happy and grateful that MC
recognized their mistake and is working to rectify the situation;
however, that doesn't make it hurt less and it doesn't make up for what
happened. I am sure that in the future, they will more carefully
calculate the scores before announcing the winners; if there is a
discrepency and the moderator brings that to the judges' attention, they
need to stop the championship round and check their scores again. At the
very least, there should have been a public acknowledgment of the mistake
before that auditorium cleared out for the day.
Regardless of what happened, I want to say how very, very proud I am of
each and every one of you. If you had been in the championship round and
won, I would have been beaming with pride. But you know what? I am EVEN
PROUDER of what I saw from you when that mistake was made. You are
entitled to feel sad, slighted, angry, hurt, disappointed -- that's all
normal. But for you to conduct yourselves in the manner in which you did
despite the mistake -- gracefully, with dignity and class -- that is
something that is far more important than a public acknowledgment of your
success.
Today, you won Quiz Bowl 2012 overall and Wild Card Round. Do not let
ANYTHING take that away. You worked hard and represented the very best
of our school, both academically and in character.
I think there are some lessons to be learned here. First, life is not
fair. Assert yourself, advocate for what's right, and always hold your
head high. That's what you did today. Also, at the end of the day, you
know you are the winners. You know you gave it your all, you know that
you rightfully won, and you know that you did your very best. Sometimes,
in life, we do things that we are not recognized for. That's not a
reason to stop doing them. Today, you challenged yourselves, you took
risks, you competed, you were winners all around. I COULD NOT BE any
prouder.
Thank you all for a wonderful experience. You are truly an amazing group
of kids and I am proud to be your teacher!!
Ms. Conceison
28 January 2012
09 January 2012
SavasaNOOOOOOO!!!!
I started yoga just after coming off an eight year long exercise bender. I won't go into the lurid details; it will suffice to say that I planned my mornings, evenings, weekends, holidays, and vacations around when I could get to the gym. It did not provide stress relief, release endorphins, or lift my spirits; in fact, each time I left I had a pit in my stomach knowing I would have to do it again, and again, and again, for the rest of my life, pedaling to nowhere on the elliptical machine.
After a serious health scare that landed me attached to heart monitors for two weeks at Beth Israel, I realized that if this continued, I would die. I didn't want to let go of my exercise addiction, but the thought of stepping foot into the gym again made me physically ill. When a good friend, who also happens to be a yoga teacher, suggested I try a class, I gave the standard response: "I'm not flexible." She gave the standard answer: "You don't have to be." Um, okay. In my mind, only contortionists could ever shape their bodies into those impossible positions; I could barely touch my toes.
I also had a personal vendetta against yoga. When I was in treatment for my eating disorder, they had a mandatory weekly yoga class. I hated it so much that I planned to speak to my outpatient therapist during this hour every week so I wouldn't have to participate. In my rigid mind, at that point yoga didn't "count" as exercise. Also, I hated with a passion any activity designed to connect your mind and your body. I hated my body, I hated my mind, my mind hated my body... it just wasn't a good scenario.
But, just about two years ago, my cousin and I decided to give it a shot. We went to a power yoga studio, had no idea what we were doing, laughed hysterically during the "ooooooms", and left feeling incompetent and sore. But something made me go back. Not to the same studio, but back to yoga. I would like to say it was for healthy, sane reasons, but really it was my eating disorder tricking me into finding a way to exercise without involving the elliptical.
For that first year, yoga was simply a means to an end. My eating disorder wanted me to exercise, the people who cared about me did not want me at the gym; yoga was the perfect solution. I had yoga rules; only certain classes "counted", I had to go in the morning, I wasn't allowed to rest, I had to go x amount of times/week, etc. If I couldn't do a pose, I felt angry at myself. If I wobbled during a balance, I felt frustrated and ashamed. I compared myself to everyone. One notable example of my madness was when I told my teacher, in all sincerity, that during a class I had been seriously weighing which would be worse, having to rest in child's pose or passing out and having the ambulance come. Basically, I did everything that yoga says you shouldn't; yes, I was doing the poses, but I wasn't doing yoga.
What I hated most about yoga was savasana, the mandatory rest period at the end of each practice. In fact, I would try to skip out on savasana with the excuse of leaving for work; my wise (and amazing) teacher Lauren caught on quickly and put an end to that. I started taking private lessons with Lauren, and she worked tirelessly to find alternative methods of savasana which would be beneficial to me. The truth was, however hard she worked, Lauren alone would not be enough to quiet the chaos that ensued in my mind when someone asked me to relax and be with my body. It just wasn't a place I was ready to travel.
I think of the next phase of yoga as "The Year of Secret Yoga". This was when my doctors caught on to the fact that my version yoga was not, in actuality, gentle stretching for relaxation, but rather extremely hot power yoga that was probably not ideal for someone with blood pressure/cardiac issues, not to mention a raging eating disorder. So began "Secret Yoga" (not to be confused with "Secret Night Walking" or "Secret Summer at the Gym"). Secret yoga involved my attending classes without directly mentioning to my doctors that I was doing this. While in treatment that year, "Secret Yoga" was a pretty much nightly ritual where we (the patients) would design our own yoga classes (sometimes in the walk-in closets) with an emphasis on ab work. Needless to say, this did not come from a healthy place (although from this practice did come "aspiring yoga fish", which could be among the most satisfying yoga pose(s) ever created).
During this phase of yoga, I actively worked to convince myself that I genuinely loved yoga and was doing it to be "healthy" and to "relieve stress". I told everyone that it was "good for me", that I was not doing it because I "had to", and that it was not hurting my recovery. I am very convincing, and I believed myself. Coming out of treatment, I even allowed myself to do shorter private sessions to "ease back into it". Looking back, I was so weak then, and not ready. My arms would shake during even the simplest poses. I had no strength. I was anxious and jittery and it showed in my movement. I hated going to class because I hated for anyone to see my weakness. I felt afraid of the heat, afraid I wouldn't be able to keep up, afraid that I wouldn't be enough. Savasana was a time of judgment and self-hate. I felt angry at myself for resting.
So, I took a break.
And then, during a particularly difficult period this fall, I found myself doing child's pose in the living room, a sun salutation before bed, headstand in the hallway. Without even thinking about what I was doing, my body knew what it needed and instinctively felt better after even the smallest shifts in movement. So, I returned to class, and something was profoundly different. My mind had changed, due to a LOT of slow, hard work. What surprised me was the way my body responded to this change in my thinking. The heat no longer made me dizzy and light-headed, but became, in a strange way, comforting. I stopped looking at the people around me. I stopped worrying about doing everything right and focused on doing what felt right to my body. This was the shift that allowed me to begin to really benefit from and understand the power of yoga.
There are no longer rules surrounding my practice. I go when I want to, when I can, and when it feels right. If I need to rest, I do. In fact, sometimes I force myself to rest. Whenever the teacher begins to transition into anything involving abdominal work, I face my fear and go right into child's pose. My anorexia loves crunches. Thrives on them. Gets addicted to them. I know myself well enough to realize that crunches are not conducive to becoming the person I want to be. It is really, really hard for a perfectionistic, competitive, exercise addict to choose to rest when a roomful of people around her are making their stomachs flatter. People talk about exercise taking "willpower"; for me, it is the opposite. Not exercising takes willpower, and every time I find myself in child's pose it feels a little bit less like a failure and more like a victory.
If you had asked me six months ago whether I could ever find a healthy relationship with exercise, I would have said absolutely not. Even thinking about exercise made me feel physically sick and caused the anorexic brain to go on high speed. Nobody could have convinced me that anybody actually enjoyed exercise... I actually had a fairly logical argument that everyone who goes to the gym secretly has an eating disorder... but that's probably for another post :) Through yoga, I am beginning to understand the power of exercise done for the right reasons. The moment I get on the mat, I begin to forget about my stress. I feel energized and relaxed. I am learning I don't have to be perfect. There are no rules. It's okay if some days I feel strong and great, and other days weaker, more tired, wobbly. That's life.
Yoga has helped me begin to see in shades of gray. It's okay to work really hard, it's okay to sweat, it's okay to not be as strong (pretty, thin, good, smart) as the person next to me, and yes, it's okay to rest. Savasana is still not my favorite part of yoga, but it no longer makes me cringe. And it sure as hell beats the elliptical.
After a serious health scare that landed me attached to heart monitors for two weeks at Beth Israel, I realized that if this continued, I would die. I didn't want to let go of my exercise addiction, but the thought of stepping foot into the gym again made me physically ill. When a good friend, who also happens to be a yoga teacher, suggested I try a class, I gave the standard response: "I'm not flexible." She gave the standard answer: "You don't have to be." Um, okay. In my mind, only contortionists could ever shape their bodies into those impossible positions; I could barely touch my toes.
I also had a personal vendetta against yoga. When I was in treatment for my eating disorder, they had a mandatory weekly yoga class. I hated it so much that I planned to speak to my outpatient therapist during this hour every week so I wouldn't have to participate. In my rigid mind, at that point yoga didn't "count" as exercise. Also, I hated with a passion any activity designed to connect your mind and your body. I hated my body, I hated my mind, my mind hated my body... it just wasn't a good scenario.
But, just about two years ago, my cousin and I decided to give it a shot. We went to a power yoga studio, had no idea what we were doing, laughed hysterically during the "ooooooms", and left feeling incompetent and sore. But something made me go back. Not to the same studio, but back to yoga. I would like to say it was for healthy, sane reasons, but really it was my eating disorder tricking me into finding a way to exercise without involving the elliptical.
For that first year, yoga was simply a means to an end. My eating disorder wanted me to exercise, the people who cared about me did not want me at the gym; yoga was the perfect solution. I had yoga rules; only certain classes "counted", I had to go in the morning, I wasn't allowed to rest, I had to go x amount of times/week, etc. If I couldn't do a pose, I felt angry at myself. If I wobbled during a balance, I felt frustrated and ashamed. I compared myself to everyone. One notable example of my madness was when I told my teacher, in all sincerity, that during a class I had been seriously weighing which would be worse, having to rest in child's pose or passing out and having the ambulance come. Basically, I did everything that yoga says you shouldn't; yes, I was doing the poses, but I wasn't doing yoga.
I think of the next phase of yoga as "The Year of Secret Yoga". This was when my doctors caught on to the fact that my version yoga was not, in actuality, gentle stretching for relaxation, but rather extremely hot power yoga that was probably not ideal for someone with blood pressure/cardiac issues, not to mention a raging eating disorder. So began "Secret Yoga" (not to be confused with "Secret Night Walking" or "Secret Summer at the Gym"). Secret yoga involved my attending classes without directly mentioning to my doctors that I was doing this. While in treatment that year, "Secret Yoga" was a pretty much nightly ritual where we (the patients) would design our own yoga classes (sometimes in the walk-in closets) with an emphasis on ab work. Needless to say, this did not come from a healthy place (although from this practice did come "aspiring yoga fish", which could be among the most satisfying yoga pose(s) ever created).
During this phase of yoga, I actively worked to convince myself that I genuinely loved yoga and was doing it to be "healthy" and to "relieve stress". I told everyone that it was "good for me", that I was not doing it because I "had to", and that it was not hurting my recovery. I am very convincing, and I believed myself. Coming out of treatment, I even allowed myself to do shorter private sessions to "ease back into it". Looking back, I was so weak then, and not ready. My arms would shake during even the simplest poses. I had no strength. I was anxious and jittery and it showed in my movement. I hated going to class because I hated for anyone to see my weakness. I felt afraid of the heat, afraid I wouldn't be able to keep up, afraid that I wouldn't be enough. Savasana was a time of judgment and self-hate. I felt angry at myself for resting.
So, I took a break.
And then, during a particularly difficult period this fall, I found myself doing child's pose in the living room, a sun salutation before bed, headstand in the hallway. Without even thinking about what I was doing, my body knew what it needed and instinctively felt better after even the smallest shifts in movement. So, I returned to class, and something was profoundly different. My mind had changed, due to a LOT of slow, hard work. What surprised me was the way my body responded to this change in my thinking. The heat no longer made me dizzy and light-headed, but became, in a strange way, comforting. I stopped looking at the people around me. I stopped worrying about doing everything right and focused on doing what felt right to my body. This was the shift that allowed me to begin to really benefit from and understand the power of yoga.
There are no longer rules surrounding my practice. I go when I want to, when I can, and when it feels right. If I need to rest, I do. In fact, sometimes I force myself to rest. Whenever the teacher begins to transition into anything involving abdominal work, I face my fear and go right into child's pose. My anorexia loves crunches. Thrives on them. Gets addicted to them. I know myself well enough to realize that crunches are not conducive to becoming the person I want to be. It is really, really hard for a perfectionistic, competitive, exercise addict to choose to rest when a roomful of people around her are making their stomachs flatter. People talk about exercise taking "willpower"; for me, it is the opposite. Not exercising takes willpower, and every time I find myself in child's pose it feels a little bit less like a failure and more like a victory.
If you had asked me six months ago whether I could ever find a healthy relationship with exercise, I would have said absolutely not. Even thinking about exercise made me feel physically sick and caused the anorexic brain to go on high speed. Nobody could have convinced me that anybody actually enjoyed exercise... I actually had a fairly logical argument that everyone who goes to the gym secretly has an eating disorder... but that's probably for another post :) Through yoga, I am beginning to understand the power of exercise done for the right reasons. The moment I get on the mat, I begin to forget about my stress. I feel energized and relaxed. I am learning I don't have to be perfect. There are no rules. It's okay if some days I feel strong and great, and other days weaker, more tired, wobbly. That's life.
Yoga has helped me begin to see in shades of gray. It's okay to work really hard, it's okay to sweat, it's okay to not be as strong (pretty, thin, good, smart) as the person next to me, and yes, it's okay to rest. Savasana is still not my favorite part of yoga, but it no longer makes me cringe. And it sure as hell beats the elliptical.
04 January 2012
"1-4-3, Uncle!!!!!!"
As many of you know, I lost someone very dear to me last week. I wanted to share my words of remembrance here, and I want "Uncle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" to know 1-4-3 -- I love you and always will. You have helped shape who I am today.
Through my entire childhood, my uncle Bernie used to tell me a story. When I was fourteen, I changed his story into a poem as a Christmas gift. It read:
Long ago and far away
Or maybe here, this very day
God came down with his Holy Ghost
And said, “Bernie Walsh, which do you want most?
All the meadows, all the trees, even the shining stars;
All the people, all the homes, all the brand new cars.
“Or would you rather Bernie,” he smiled,
“Have the gift of this little child?”
Between two streets, the left side and the right
Bernie thought with all his might
Shall I choose the left side with all its gems and pearls
Or shall I choose the right, which holds the little girl?
Bernie looked at God, his eyes full of question
And asked if he had any suggestions
God gave the only advice that he could,
“Do what your heart tells you you should”
As Bernie listened to his heart
He knew it held the answer right from the start
He looked at God and boldly said
“The riches don’t matter,
Of course I choose Kara.”
I felt special when he told me that story. He made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. Bernie’s gift, though, was that he was able to make everyone whose life he touched feel like they were that little girl, or boy, on the other side of the street. When Bernie loved you, he would do anything for you. He would take a bullet, or give the shirt off his back, to help the ones he loved. And Bernie loved a lot of people. His heart was big and there was always enough to go around.
I am the last remaining member of the Walsh bloodline. My uncle was devastated by the deaths of his beloved mother, his father, his sister KK, who died tragically at the age of two, his brother John, and finally his dear sister Evelyn, my mother, whom we lost to cancer in 2002. What a strong man, to watch his entire family pass on before him and still continue to live and love. My uncle Bernie serves as an example to all who have lost loved ones; his family meant the world to him, he spoke to them every night in his prayers, and he continued to move on with his own life, holding them in his heart.
If friends are truly the family you choose, then Bernie chose well. Everyone here meant something special to Bernie. He created his own family, not only myself but my extended family, especially my father, Joe; my Auntie Pat, his dear friend of 36 years and her children and grandchildren, who called him “Grampie”; and our wonderful neighborhood.
It is hard to put a label on the relationship I had with my uncle. Because he was so much more to me than just an uncle. He loved me like a father, he spoiled me like a grandfather, he teased me like a brother, and he conspired with me like a friend. My uncle attended every dance recital and every theater performance I was ever involved in. Whether I played a starring role or ball guest #8, his pride in me was the same. He would beam, make sure everyone sitting near him knew that I was his niece, and would always give me a Beatrix Potter figurine to put on my piano to mark each performance. As a little kid, I would lie on my uncle’s bed at night and watch MASH, an old TV show about the Korean War. Not sure it was the most appropriate choice for a kindergartener, but my uncle did not believe in sheltering kids (in fact, he taught me all of my swear words).
He read to me every night. We started with “Annie Goes to Camp”; I ended up memorizing it at two years old (even knowing the right places to turn the pages) and he would show me off like a party trick, telling people I knew how to read! He would try to trick me by reading the wrong words or ending suddenly, and I always called him on it—that made him proud. One of our favorite children’s books was called “A Special Trade”. It was about a grandfather who took care of his granddaughter when she was young, feeding her, telling her stories, and taking her for stroller rides around the neighborhood. Later, when the girl was older, her grandfather fell ill, and she took care of him, feeding him, telling him stories, and taking him for wheelchair rides around the neighborhood. While my uncle was sick, we talked about this book; it holds a special place on my bookshelf and in my heart.
My uncle was always meticulous about the way he looked and dressed. In fact, our biggest fights revolved around who got the bathroom first. He would spend HOURS getting ready, shaving, and the hair… he had a little black comb and spent at least an hour making sure every hair was exactly in place. One of my favorite games as a child was to try and mess up his hair, because I knew that really pushed his buttons. I think that my love of all things Burberry comes from my uncle Bernie; only the best for us! He loved dressing to the nines to visit the Colettis’ for holidays, taking Pat to church and to dinner at the Wayside Inn, going to the country club with Ed and the rest of the Deveaus’, riding down to Scituate to visit David, going to Chicago to see Brian’s family (he was so proud to be at Andrew’s graduation!) and traveling to Florida to see Karen and her family. All of these trips made him feel proud, important, and special, and he wanted to make sure he made everyone he loved proud of him as well.
Growing up, my uncle and I had a little conspiracy against my parents. When I was about 6, there was a fad of trading cards called “Garbage Pail Kids”. When my mom realized how vulgar and disgusting they were, she told me I had to throw them all away. Seeing how devastated I was, Uncle told Mom that he would throw them away, and instead he stored them in his hope chest, where they live on today. Uncle and I also shared a sweet-tooth. On his way home from work, Uncle would stop at CVS and buy me secret stashes of candy to keep in my room. When my mom and dad insisted that I eat my vegetables, my uncle would covertly push his plate near mine and slip the spinach or broccoli onto his own plate. We had lots of inside jokes, but our favorite was called “lightbulbs”. Once, my uncle told me that my parents “weren’t that bright”. From then on, every time one of them said or did something we thought was ridiculous, we would point at the ceiling and whisper “lightbulbs”.
My uncle liked to think of himself as a tough army veteran, but really he was sentimental at heart. It was he who saved every piece of artwork, every program, every roster, every newspaper clipping, every test, every essay, every report card, from my pre-school through college graduation.
My uncle was equally proud of his granddaughters, Jena and Alicia. “That Jena, she’s sensible and smart and responsible; and Alicia, she takes after me! Don’t ever mess with Alicia!” Bernie was a steady and consistent presence in Jena and Alicia’s lives; he was at dance recitals, holy Communions, soccer games, softball games, Sunday dinners, and graduations. He wanted more than anything to be with Jena on her wedding day and was devastated when he was too weak to make it; however, he was surely there in spirit and heart, just as he will be with all of us as we move forward with milestones in our lives. A memory that all of us share is my Uncle’s love of “slipping the twenty”. He didn’t make a lot of money, but every time he would see Jena and Alicia, he would make a point of secretly slipping the bill into their hands and admonishing them not to tell their mother. He did the same to me, and to my many cousins, to the kids I babysat for; pretty much to any kid who walked through the door.
Uncle Bernie was equally generous with the neighborhood children. On Halloween, he made sure to buy each “special” child a huge candy bar wrapped in a dollar bill. On Christmas, he made the rounds with giftcards for all of his young friends. As he got older and retired, we got a dog named Chloe. Chloe and Bernie pretty much became the neighborhood mascots. They would walk up to the Perkins School for the Blind every single day and visit with the kids, the bus drivers, the teachers, and the nurses. In the afternoon, Bernie and Chloe would sit on the front steps and wait for the kids to get off the school bus. He would chat with Hannah and Ally about school, Timmy about snowboarding, Anna, Ava, and Joseph about puppies, and little Clara would sit with him for hours discussing world events. In the evening, he would talk about gardening and history with Dan across the street, would crack jokes with Steve, and would have long conversations with Helen and her sweet granddaughter Hannah.
Our next door neighbors, Fred, Sophie, Benjamin, and Olivier, held a particularly special place in Bernie’s heart. They moved in next door when Sophie was 7 ½ months pregnant with Benjamin. My uncle loved watching Ben grow from a baby, to a rambunctious two year old who never walked, only ran, to an independent pre-schooler. As Benjamin grew, for better or worse, Bernie taught him the way he taught me as a young child. They would sit on the porch for hours reading Curious George and eating lunch together, having conversations that I’m sure Sophie thought were completely innocent.
Until one day, Sophie mentioned to Bernie and me that Benjamin had been saying something about “throwing you in the ocean and feeding you to the sharks!” She couldn’t imagine where he had learned such a thing. My uncle got that devilish grin on his face; “Not from me!” One day, as I sat on the porch and witnessed their inappropriate (but funny) bantering, I said to Benjamin, “Ben, would your mother want you saying things like that?” Benjamin, showing off the devilish grin he learned from Bernie, replied “My mother is not HERE!”
Last summer, Fred, Sophie, and the boys took a trip to France to visit family. Sophie overheard Benjamin, then three, asking his cousin how to say “Nincompoop” in French! Wonder where he got that from?
Aside from having a gift with the young, Bernie had a special gift with the elderly. For years, he and Pat volunteered at Maristhill Nursing Home. My uncle’s job was to wheel patients down to Mass. For some reason, he was often mistaken for a priest by the residents. Of course, he loved that. He would bless people in the elevator, say a prayer, and they would gratefully reply, “Thank you, Father”.
My uncle was fiercely protective, especially of Pat. He put the needs of others over his own. One night, not long ago, the fire alarm went off at 55 Waverly, where Bernie and Pat lived two doors away from one another. Pat didn’t hear the alarm, and Bernie stubbornly refused to leave the building without her. When the firemen told him he would have to go, Bernie shouted (using colorful language), “That’s the police chief’s mother in there and you better get someone to unlock that door NOW!” He was battling cancer, not even close to the 220 pound tough guy he used to be, but he remained just as persistent and protective as ever. And as usual, he got his way.
My uncle has been preparing me for this day since I was a little girl. He always told me that every year he got to see me grow was an extra blessing he never expected. He said that when the time came, that I should cry at the funeral (and he said that with a twinkle in his eye and that devilish grin), and then I should move on with my life, remembering him but not dwelling in the sadness. I know that he would want the same for all of you, the family he created.
There’s a line from a song by Andy Griggs I would like to share:
“If heaven were a town it would be my town, on a summer day in 1985
When everything I wanted was out there waiting
And everyone I loved was still alive.
Don’t cry a tear for me now baby, there comes a time we all must say goodbye
And if that’s what heaven’s made of
You know I, I ain’t afraid to die.”
My uncle was not afraid to die. Yes, he was worried about all of us he has left behind, but his message to you would be to remember him always but to go on with your lives. He held on for a long time, because he was a tough guy and that’s what tough guys do, but now he is at rest. He was a man of God and had a strong faith and is now safe with the Lord. I can imagine his mom and dad, sisters and brother, waiting to welcome him at the gates of Heaven, and of course Chloe running over the Rainbow Bridge, ears flying behind her, tail wagging, to greet her best friend.
I have one last thought before I close. One night, while he was pretty sick, I was lying on my uncle’s bed with him. We were very open about death and dying, and I asked him what he would like me to say in the eulogy. He thought a minute, got that devilish grin on his face, and said, “He was a hell of a guy!” And uncle, you were. You were a hell of a guy, and we will miss you. I love you.
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