Where's the duffel bag of mine, it's time to go

My family does not "do" funerals. When I was a child, I cannot recall one funeral I attended. If my parents went, they found someplace else for us to be. In fact, my first real funeral -- with the open casket, viewing, service, etc -- was in my 30s. Needless to say, it freaked me out.

When my uncle died a few weeks ago, I knew his memorial would be something else. It would be celebratory, tinged with sadness. Maybe a touch meloncholy with a focus on what he left behind. I knew this because that is how my family "does" funerals.

You cannot encapsulate a man with pictures, music and scene, but you can do a damn good job trying.

I knew my Uncle Jeff for 36 years and I cannot remember a moment he was really sad, or mad. He was always smiling, telling jokes, puffing his pipe. Sarcastic, intelligent, a gifted storyteller. I wish I had sat and listened more often. Truly engaged in those politial discussions he loved to wage.

Those times are gone. But I can still smile, tell a joke, love my family and be a left-winged liberal. And in that small way... he lives forever.