Bruce and I first met in 1965 when I was 10-years-old. I had completely forgotten this fact until 50+-years later when I found this picture in a box of my mother’s personal belongings. I had taken possession of this box over 25-years ago when she passed away, but chose not to explore its contents at the time for personal reasons. Turning 60 seemed to cause something in my brain to click, and my reluctance was gone now—so I decided the time had come to bury my personal hatchet and attempt to discover what secrets lie in that box. There were dozens of photos of a hundred people I didn’t recognize, except my mom and her sister; I needed help. With the assistance of several web-based programs, I started cobbling together a hazy image of a “Tree” and started to appreciate that I had met family decades before; in fact, my wife and been in touch with them after my mothers death and had several nice conversations with them. Those chats normally ended with them trying to convince her to have me call them, and her standard reply of “I can’t make him do what he doesn’t want to.” After a year or so the line went cold. I never reached out and they never tried calling again. 20 years had passed and I was ready to talk, that is if they wanted anything to do with me.

Initially, when my new-found focus directed me to them, I had little recollection of anything besides the several visits by their mother to reference. In my mind I wondered if they were offended by my lack of interest in communication all those years ago and… what if he is dead? The online site I was using had two phone numbers on file, so I will try them both. The first rang through as “no longer in service.” Hopefully, the other will be a working line I thought as I dialed. It rang and rang, finally going into a generic voice-mail. At the “beep” I started to leave a quick message not knowing if these were even the people I was trying to reach. I had left my first name and was pronouncing my last when the receiver lifted to shouts and laughter! It was Bruce’s daughter on the line and she was screaming how happy she was and that her dad absolutely wants to talk! After our hour phone conversation, it was clear there were no hard feelings regarding my 20-year reluctance to talk.

The talks became more frequent and more relaxed. Bruce and family were excited that I had finally started my journey and offered any support or help to further that quest. It became clear—to me at least, that we needed to meet—in person. His health was tentative at best; beating back cancer several times, but losing strength and stamina with every battle, so I couldn’t chance missing meeting in person. We decided August would work for both sides. I had wanted Lisa with me but she and her mother were still in Miami completing what we thought was our forever home there—different story for a different time…

I was excited, and nervous because I felt a certain significance to this gathering; I had begun a journey to discover my roots and this was my first stop. Bruce and his daughter Debbie were picking me up at the Denver airport. Debbie had been the catalyst in many ways to facilitate this meeting. It was her page I first landed on in Ancestry.com, that offered so many clues and truly helped me connect our “dots.” Her love of genealogy was my bridge to find them.

Bruce was tall, 6’4″ and thin. Genetically I think he is anyway, but years of treatment didn’t help either. Debbie was the opposite, 5’6″ and large. This sounds terribly rude but it only describes the exterior appearance and nothing more. Part of my observation has been to gather info on blood family and look for similarities—or differences—in this case. We went back to their home for a lunch of sandwiches before retiring to Bruce’s den to dig through their personal archives. At lunch, Bruce’s wife Pat joined us. She was every bit as cordial and pleasant as the others—not that I expected anything different. Lunch was like traveling back in time. White bread, Miracle whip, american cheese and bologna. I don’t eat this way as an adult, but I absolutely did as a kid and could almost feel my mom’s presence at that table.

Bruce already had boxes setup for me to look through as Debbie brought more into the room. As I asked “Where to start” he looked at the box closest and said “There is as good a place as any.” He then added, “You are welcome to look in any box and at any picture or document you choose. Nothing is off-limits.” The heartfelt generosity was appreciated. He followed with, “I will answer any question you have to the best of my ability” —and he did. For a day and a half we broke only to eat and continued digging—and talking. He (and Debbie) helped put names to many faces and enlightened me, as much as possible, to how dysfunctional our genetic family was. Many curiosities I had growing up started making sense, at least acknowledging their possible roots. Temperament and isolation were two of them.

I made one trip back, and they (family minus Bruce and Pat) visited me twice. We were “Thick as thieves” for a minute. As fun as this was, neither of us were especially good at staying in touch. The thought of a quick call occurred, but never enough desire to make that call. I love them all in my heart, but being separated our entire adult lives didn’t build enough bond to carry us forward I guess. Maybe this is human nature or maybe it is how my ancestors relate. Debbie and I continue building our “Tree’s” but never compare notes.

I received the call from Debbie early Monday. I knew before I answered because the caller ID read “Bruce” and he never calls. I had also received a touching email from Debbie a week before letting me know about her dad and how quickly he was fading. She also wrote how grateful he was to have gotten to know me. Bruce was as kind and sweet a man as I have ever met. His generosity and willingness to share personal ephemera were crucial in my search. His recollection of family historical events and his ability to describe their impact on him in such human terms will always be appreciated. Bruce was a fine man, a great father and grandfather and a perfect cousin. R.I.P. Bruce.

Post Script. At 10-years-old I was allowed to take a summer vacation trip with my best-friend and his grandparents. It was planned as a two-week trip to an Airstream trailer rally but lasted 3-months. Of all the states we visited, the unexpected one was Colorado. Unbeknownst to me, my traveling guardians had talked to my mother about visiting her sister (my aunt) on our trip and was given the address. I don’t recall my feelings when we met, but do remember how nice they were—even offering to take me with them the following week to visit their daughter in Illinois, which thought might be cool, but I declined. When I met Bruce in person, he mentioned remembering meeting me when I was little, yet I had no recollection of this, so when I found this picture buried in the box with no info for reference I was pleasantly surprised.