To Uncle Frank...

Cool.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of the death of a true honest-to-goodness viking, and one of my favourite people in the world - my mom's brother, my uncle, Frank Unkerskov.

Late June 2010 was the beginning of a year of loss, and while we were wrapped up in the horrific shooting death of my 'little brother' Jesse Archer that occurred a week after Uncle Frank's death, I often feel ashamed to say that I did not pay him proper respect.  It isn't that I didn't feel the pain of his death or that I did not love him as much as I loved Jesse.  It isn't that because he lived in Alberta my whole life I never got to know him and therefore did not care (he moved out there to work shortly after my Uncle Peter did, then found the love of his life, my Aunt Karen, and that was that).  There really is no excuse, and for that I am so sorry.  Today, one year after he was taken from us much too soon, I will try my meagre best to share memories of Uncle Frank, as I remember him.

When my mom told me that her brother had died, it was a beautiful sunny morning a few days after my thirtieth birthday.  Matt and I were leaving for the zoo, and she called me up onto the back porch.  I could see from her face that something horrible had happened.  My mom is one tough cookie, with an amazing ability to see the best in every situation.  She has seen more than her share of loss, having lost her dad to a heart attack when she was eighteen, and her oldest brother Peter to a car accident when I was just six months old.  If my mom is upset, there is a very very good reason.  She told me about what had happened (an unexpected heart attack at home at the age of 59) and I hugged her tight and we cried and cried and cried, right there on the back porch.

With mom, on her wedding day

What hit me more than anything else about that moment was not directly the loss of my uncle, although that was sad enough.  But it was the sight of my mom totally lost and consumed by grief that really got to me.  She just kept saying 'I don't have any brothers anymore.  My brothers are gone' and hearing that affected me so deeply that I will never forget it.  I remember trying to imagine at that moment how she possibly must feel.  How would I feel if I lost my big brother so suddenly and unexpectedly?  Such a notion is completely unthinkable to me.  Justin has always been there for me when I needed him, and even when I haven't.  He is my dearest, closest friend - the Batman to my Robin - and to lose him would be to lose part (a BIG part) of myself.  I don't know what I would do without him, and the thought of losing him and not having him around scares the pants off me.  But I thought about that moment - mom crying over the loss of her brothers and how I would feel to lose my brother, all week long after hearing the news.  I can still hear her crying and whispering those words to me in my head, and I imagine it will stick with me for the rest of my life.

'danish gangster' look... ha ha

Nine days after Uncle Frank died, after being shaken so deeply to the core, I had the misfortune of getting a taste of what losing a brother is all about.  At 4am on June 28th, Matt and I got a phone call - the phone call no one wants to get - telling us that the oldest of his three younger brothers, Jesse, was in Intensive Care at Kingston General Hospital.  We were told that he had been shot in the head, and that he wasn't going to make it.  I was in the bathroom when Matt answered the phone after so many rings, and I remember hearing his wail as he put down the phone and hit the floor.  On autopilot, we rushed to Kingston to say our goodbyes.  The ten months that followed that moment were so emotionally gut-wrenching; so intense, yet totally surreal, that I didn't have time to think about anything else.  Now that things have settled down a little bit, and we have been to court and seen the mindless brute responsible for such a horrific event sentenced to a mere seven years in prison, we can try to put the pieces of our shattered lives back together and move on as best we can.

Frank at 22

I often feel ashamed and embarrassed over the fact that during the whirlwind surrounding Jesse's murder I didn't think about Uncle Frank and my Aunt Karen and their two kids, my cousins Jessica and Tyler, nearly as much as I should have.  Maybe because Jesse's death hit us a lot closer to home.  Maybe because of the horrific details surrounding the end of such an innocent young life that positively oozed generosity, kindness, and raw talent.  Maybe because Jesse played such a key role in my life for the last twelve years, and maybe because, living two provinces over, I didn't get a chance to be as close to Uncle Frank as I should have been.  Whatever that 'maybe' might be, Uncle Frank's death seems more real now than ever before, and I think of him all the time.  I cry for him all the time.  I cry because he's gone, and I cry for my mom and my MorMor and for Karen.  I cry because today is Father's Day, and my cousins are not able to laugh and hug their dad and tell him what a great father he is - instead they are mourning his loss.  I cry because I didn't know him as well as I should.  I cry because I will never get the chance.

Four of Five Unkerskov kids - Frank, Sharon, Peter, Susan (my mom)
August 1958

Because he lived so far away, and because we never really saw him, I'm sad to say that my memories of Uncle Frank are few and far between, and a lot of them stem from stories Justin and I were told about him as kids.  The few memories I do have of him are some of my fondest.  When I was little, Uncle Frank was the closest I would ever get to knowing a real viking, and I thought of him (and Uncle Peter) as just that.  I still do (a much kinder, gentler viking... you know... without all the raping and pillaging... ha ha).  It wasn't just that he was born in Denmark or that he had shaggy hair or that he was big and tough, but I'm sure that helped.  He was the ultimate storyteller and absolutely the best at telling a joke.  No one could tell a tale like Uncle Frank.  He made everything so funny and lively and every story was a story worth telling.  He would have us rolling on the floor with laughter.  He seemed so self-assured, he was a great husband and dad, he stood up for himself and his family, he never took crap from anyone... but he did it all with a huge heart, a quick wit, and an undying sense of deliciously dark gallow's humour shared by all the Unkerskovs and Poulsens I know.

Peter and Frank - 1972

I remember being regaled with stories from mom and her two sisters about what it was like growing up with Frank and oldest brother Peter, and what tyrants they were.  In my young mind, Frank and Peter were about as cool as it gets.  They were good-looking popular guys (mom says that girls used to get all dolled up and walk past their house and back, in hopes that Uncle Frank would be in the yard and see them), but they were not stuck up about it.  They were down-to-earth, friendly guys, but were not afraid to speak their mind - the Unkerskov boys were much respected as a pair 'not to be messed with' and got in their share of fights, and that made them close to superheroes as far as I was concerned.  Whether he was tying my mom up in the front yard so he could steal her bike to ride to the pool hall, or having full-blown fist fights with Uncle Peter that left gaping holes punched in the walls while my mom and her sisters tried their best to keep out of the way, the stories I heard never matched up with the person I knew and loved as a kid.  Uncle Frank did these things?  Loveable, kind, gentle Uncle Frank??  hmm... are you sure??  Impossible.

Grover and I today
(We've worked things out)

I have tried my hardest to collect as many memories of Uncle Frank as  I could.  Because they mostly occurred when I was small, and my memory is not the greatest, timelines are questionable at best.  When attempting to conjure as many anecdotes as I can, the memories all just swim together in bits and pieces, and it just makes me wish that much more that I had had the chance to sit down and talk to him about what really happened, from his point of view.  I wonder what he would have remembered about sending me that stuffed Grover from Alberta on my second (third?) birthday.  I recall being so excited when a big package came, with MY name on it.  Things changed pretty quickly once I opened it though.  I'm sure Uncle Frank didn't know that I was deathly afraid of Muppets, or that upon opening the box that contained my new lovable furry friend I would be sent screaming from the room waving my arms in the air in sheer terror.  I wish I had a chance to share a laugh with him about that now, because I know he would have gotten a real kick out of it...

Uncle Frank, Jessie, me, Justin - Red Deer, 1986

Uncle Frank, me, mom, cousin Anders, Justin, Aunt Karen
Red Deer - 1986

We went to visit Uncle Frank and Aunt Karen in Red Deer twice when I was little (apparently 1983 and 1986) - both times in the winter, because mom and dad would ski - but I can't seem to distinguish between the two trips in my mind.  I don't remember much, but I am lucky to remember what I do.  I remember an old man on the plane wanting to take me to the Calgary Stampede and buy me a cowboy hat.  I remember sitting with Justin and my cousin Jessie on top of a shirtless, supine Uncle Frank as he lay on a brown couch watching John Wayne movies.  I remember their friendly brown and white dog, Rastas.  I remember Uncle Frank giving Justin and I our first sugar cereal ever (Alpha-Bits, Honey Comb, and Honey Nut Cheerios, specifically).  We had never had sugar cereal before - didn't know it existed even until that point, so that one sticks out very vividly... ha ha.  I remember 'frying' 'hamburger patties in their front yard very very distinctly... it is quite possibly one of my favourite childhood memories, and I will remember it for a lifetime.  I am three (I guess?), playing all by myself, 'frying hamburgers' in the front yard as follows: 1. Form patty from snow.  2. Throw in 'fryer' (i.e. a puddle)  3. When patty turns from white to translucent, it is cooked.  4. Fish it out with a stick.  5. Repeat.  As lame as it sounds, every spring when the snow is melting and there are puddles on the ground, I think of that moment in Uncle Frank's yard and I smile.  I remember chasing my cousin Jessie, who was barely old enough to be running, down the hall with a gold-plated baby fork (why? who knows.  Sorry Jess... no hard feelings?  ha ha) and having Aunt Karen yell at me for it (rightfully so), and I remember eating spaghetti with Justin and my second cousin Randy in the kitchen at mom and Uncle Frank's cousin Karen's place and listening to the grown ups in the other room laughing and talking.  I remember going skiing for the very first time ever, and being enrolled in the 'Chocolate Moose' ski school at Lake Louise, where I spent more time having ski instructors drag me around at the end of a pole than actually learning how to ski.  I remember driving past the ski jumps still standing from the 1984 Calgary Olympics.  I remember going to visit Aunt Karen's mom in Drumheller, and visiting the Royal Tyrell museum in the Badlands (I got a plaster casting of a 'trilobite' which is still with me, somewhere).  I remember that when Uncle Frank drove us to the airport when it was time to fly back home, 'Karma Chameleon' by the Culture Club was playing on the car stereo, and the car was green.  I remember Uncle Frank coming to give away the hand of his youngest sister, my Aunt Stephie, when she married Ian when I was ten years old.   I remember talking Zappa with him at his last visit to Ontario in November 2001.  I wish I remembered more than that, but I don't, and it makes me so sad.  It doesn't seem like a lot of memories to remember such a wonderful man.  He was so much more than that.

A 'knus' for Ollie!

I miss you, Uncle Frank.  I love you dearly, and I always will.  You were one in a million.  Legendary story teller.  Reputed Hell-raiser.  Fabulous husband and amazing stay-at-home dad.  Great golfer.  Friend to cats and dogs and small children everywhere.  Frank Zappa fan.  Sender of frightening Muppets.  Grower of bushy moustaches.  A Viking with a heart of gold.  I wish I had taken the time to get to know you as an adult.  I wish I had called you, or written letters, or bugged you more about staying in touch on Facebook.  It's true what they say; you really DON'T know what you've got 'til it's gone.  Everything changes in a heartbeat, and while we often don't have control over what happens to whom, and when, we do have control over how much we interact with and appreciate the people in our lives who really matter to us.  Although a lesson learned the hard way, in losing Uncle Frank I have been reminded how important it is to make the effort to reach out to those you love, no matter how far away they are or how long it's been since you last talked.  Each moment you share with them could be your last, so make the most of it while you still can.

I think another trip to Alberta is in order...

Last visit to Ontario - Nov 2001