Someday No More

My Uncle Danny died recently, and I haven’t really dealt with his death yet. So I am going to force myself to do it. He was an exceptional artist, and he had the most intricate sense of detail. He did this drawing for my mum of a ram; Zeepmomma is into the horoscope stuff (despite all of my lectures concerning astronomy and stellar distances and blah blah blah I am a killjoy), and she is an Aries. I once tried to count all the lines in the horns of the ram; after three days, I stopped at one thousand. Oh, and the picture is drawn on a piece of 8”X10” paper.

He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.

Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.

He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.

My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.

Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.

Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.

-Zeepdoggie