At the moment, I can't even think of a title for this posting. My uncle died last week, and he was buried today. He was only 68.

I will always remember with an inward giggle the time he took me to a car auction some eighty miles away. He sold the vehicle we went there in, but I bought a car and his friend bought a car, a truck, and a child's 4-wheeler. We started home. My car was the first to conk out. Then a few miles later, the truck. We got into the old car of our last hope and willed it to make it so we wouldn't be piled up on a tiny 4-wheeler racing down the interstate.

He was an adventurer. I'm sure if he had lived in the time and place of safaris, he would have been right out there amongst them, having a grand old time. That's the way I see and remember him. I remember hiking up mountains and through woods and exploring caves with him. I remember him taking us to places where American Indians had painted lasting tributes on the rock. I remember being in a glass-bottomed submarine with him after an exciting halfway-across-the country trip to Disneyworld. I remember him calling us all out to the lake many, many weekends where we would swim and ski behind his boat. I see him, healthy and laughing and smiling, always having a ball. I see him in that blue and white boat skimming the waves.

He was a fine friend, a wonderful uncle. Everyone who knew him remembers the smile and the cup of coffee. He was an adventurer. To Uncle Rex, may this be your grandest adventure yet.