I recently experienced the death of an uncle. I made one of those fly in on Friday, fly out on Monday trips to Denver, which was enough to remind me God bless the minimal traffic we have here in the Columbia Basin.

When I was a kid, we all got together on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not so much an everyday playtime with the cousins. My grandpa Herbert Petersen was in that advanced age group that entitled him to call us all George because with five cousins three-and-under, we moved far too fast to blurt out the real name before we were gone again. I used to laugh at that then, but as the little ones ran from room to room, I understood. I hope history doesn’t repeat itself in my feeble mind.

I don’t know if I have a favorite uncle or a special family connection, but something pulled me to this reunion and the remembrance of a man’s life. Besides, Jim Petersen played a little golf and that makes him my favorite uncle for 18 holes anyway.

My, my how the clan has grown. We have doubled in size from that original Cousins-named-George. This trip was a chance to reconnect with my cousin’s kids. In the Native American culture, uncle is what they call an adult male as a sign of respect. So I have become Uncle Rod, which is more preferred to second cousin or simply Wayne and Diana’s kid.

It’s a little hard to keep up, since Generation Next in our family is the 20-somethings traveling the world. My niece Mackenzie Lee spent the summer in Italy and now wants to study chemistry in Prague. Her cousins, my cousin’s kids, are world travelers too. Italy, Hawaii anywhere there’s beaches and sun. I can’t afford to vacation in Othello and Generation Next in my family is all over the world.

Now I did run into one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen with my cousin’s boy Sage and his son Irie Petersen. If I’m uncle to Sage, I’m probably going to be something a wichah^cala, which translates to old man from Lakota to English. I always hope to be kola. Having written for Indian Country Today Media Network for a couple of years, I have committed myself to learning Indian ways as best I can.

Irie is just 18 months or so and hasn’t gotten around speaking just yet. But he responds to sign language. Here’s this little kid running around with his hair pulled back in a cool pony tail, like the king of the household as cute little kids are. He was playing a little soccer with Grandpa Gus Petersen, one of the kids-called-George. Irie motions with both hands downward as if he were unscrewing a lid off a jar. Gus hollers over to a friend of my cousin Joe Petersen’s kids, “What’s that mean?”

“It means finish. Whatever you’re doing, he’s done.”

Way cool. This tiny tot warrior has the presence of mind to say I’m ready for something else.

As we spread my uncle’s ashes at the confluence of the South Platte River in a celebration of one man’s life, it came to me that no matter how far the gap or the miles in distance, family is forever and I hope to remember that throughout the holiday season.

It doesn’t matter, Facebook, Twitter, texting, however it’s done in this instant-access-world. There is always that ancient thought of calling them up on the telephone or actually going over to their house. Don’t leave anything left unsaid, always end the conversation with “I love you.”

Life in this middle world is often shorter than we know, but family is forever.

Rodney Harwood can be reached at 509-765-4561 ext. 111 or businessag@columbiabasinherald.com.