I want to tell you about my Uncle Jimmy

Philip James Schenkel—my dad's little brother—passed away yesterday. He was 81.

Uncle Jimmy was the middle child of five—with Uncle Bobby and my dad being the oldest, and Uncle Ricky and Aunt Phyllis being the youngest.

Back, L to R: Uncles Ricky, Jimmy and Bobby;
Middle: Aunt Phyllis; Front: Dad

Family was important to all of them. In fact, the first memory that comes to mind were Orange Bowl parties at Uncle Jimmy's house on New Year's Day when the Nebraska Cornhuskers played some losing team (national champions back to back to back, baby!). The brothers were watching the game. Their wives and Aunt Phyllis were in the kitchen. The kids were playing unsupervised wherever we wanted—probably running with scissors. It was the 70s, man!

Dad was the glue in the family—he was the one who organized the family reunions and made sure everyone showed up to make runzas have a good time. While I was looking for pictures of Uncle Jimmy today, I found at least four such reunions. Here's one with the next generation of Schenkels, my niece Margeaux and my nephew Nick. And there's my Uncle Jimmy, second from right, with his ever-present smile:

Eventually, we lost Uncle Bobby, but Dad, Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Ricky made the trek from Lincoln to Greeley, where my Uncle Bobby was living then, for the funeral. If you know me, then you know that the way I process grief is often through humor. Gosh, I wonder where I got that from? 🤣 I remember this evening before the service just sitting in a hotel lobby and laughing the night away:

Although I spent a lot of time with Uncle Jimmy and his family growing up, it wasn't until Vic and I started driving to Nebraska every year that I grew much closer to him. You can imagine how some family members might balk at the idea of their beloved daughter/sister/niece dating and then marrying a man 17 years her senior ... but not Uncle Jimmy. He welcomed Vic with open arms (as did all of my family ... eventually 😂) from the very start and always made him feel included and loved.

Every time we went to Nebraska, we made sure to spend time with Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Nancy.

We would often go to The sllonK for dinner (actually The Knolls, but my dad had this thing about pronouncing words backward—I still remember the first time we passed through an unincorporated town and the word "detaroprocninu" just flew off his tongue—and then everyone else just started calling it The sllonK, too), after which we would drive around Lincoln, often starting in the North Bottoms, where Dad's family settled, and then passing by the little house where Grandma Rose and Grandpa Phil lived with their children—my dad and his siblings. Dad and Uncle Jimmy would narrate, and we never heard the same story twice.

Vic would always make us get out of the car at some point so he could take a picture of us. This is my all-time favorite:

Many a trip ended at the Village Inn, where everyone would meet for breakfast before we headed back to Colorado. We almost always did some jokey pose—Vic rarely got a clean shot of us. The thing that strikes me about this picture is that my mom and my stepmom are in it. They were both close to Aunt Nancy, and Norma (my stepmom) just wasn't intimidated by Dad's ex-wife. (I know this post is supposed to be about Uncle Jimmy, but shout-out to Norma, the best stepmom of all time.)

The last time I saw Uncle Jimmy was at my beloved cousin Kimmy's funeral not quite three years ago. He wasn't doing well—both physically and emotionally. He was pretty much in constant pain, and he had just lost his daughter suddenly and without warning. But he still had the ability to summon a smile to his face, which is how I'll always think of him.

I loved getting the occasional text from him, always signed "Love ya, Uncle Jim," as if I wouldn't know who it was from. He would tell me what TV show they were watching and what was going on in it, or what the weather was like, or how he missed my dad/his brother. After Kimmy died, we talked a lot about grief.

My heart goes out to my Aunt Nancy, my cousin Chris, my Aunt Kathy (Uncle Jimmy's first wife), and all of our family and friends who loved Uncle Jimmy. I've been getting a lot of texts from my family today, and they all say the same thing: "He was a really good guy" and "He was the best." And they are all right.

I'll leave you with a few of my favorite pictures of Uncle Jimmy and me. I couldn't have loved him more.

After a nice dinner we had in Lincoln—maybe at The sllonK?

At one of our many meals together—I'll bet this was at the Garden Cafe

At my college graduation party

About a boy

When I was in high school, I ended up in a class with a bunch of girls in the grade below. There were several—about 10—who were a really tight group. For reasons unknown but for which I am eternally grateful, those girls let me join their crew. We did more or less everything together for my last three years of high school, and I count them as some of my dearest friends to this day.

We let some boys into our club, too, one of whom passed away Wednesday, very suddenly and unexpectedly.

Lynn Hartzell was the best kind of high school boy—funny, kind, respectful. Looking back, he seemed wise beyond his years—he was comfortable in his own skin and didn't seem to care what anybody else thought. (Unlike so many teenage girls, who live and die by the approval of their peers.) So he hung out with us girls a lot, and that was OK with us.

We were great friends in high school, and after the invention of Facebook, we became great friends again. But for a short time in my senior year, to quote Cloris Leachman in Young Frankenstein, "He vas ... my boyfriend!" (Cue Peter Boyle getting electrocuted and screaming. Lynn would have loved this reference.) 

Boyfriend. That word feels sooooo teenagery to me today. But man, in the late 70s/early 80s, having a boyfriend was everything. And he was the best kind of high school boyfriend to have because he didn't play high school boy games—if he liked you, he'd walk down the hall hand in hand with you. He wouldn't talk smack about you just to look cool in front of the other guys. And he wouldn't be coy or evasive about his feelings or make you wonder where you stood with him.

He also had a hot Camaro, so there was that.

If this picture doesn't scream 1970s to you, you are too young.

We went to football and basketball games, took band trips, went to bible study, and hung out at his house a lot. (His parents were a girlfriend's absolute dream. In fact, his dad was one of the first adult men who didn't treat me like a girl. He let me drive the tractor when they were putting up hay the summer after I graduated, even though I broke the hay bailer—twice. The obvious choice would have been for me to stay in the kitchen with Lynn's mom while she cooked us a feast for lunch, but they needed help in the fields, and I could drive. More or less.)

As many high school romances do, ours fizzled out. I moved away from home in the days before cell phones or email. We had to write letters. And we did ... for a while. And then we didn't. We both moved on, found the loves of our lives, and married them.

One day, 20 years after high school, I got a DM in my Facebook. From Lynn. He and his wife Sara were moving, and he found a cheerleader sweater with a "Patti" emblem on it. Knowing that I spelled my name with a "y," he wasn't sure it was mine, but after a little investigating, I confirmed that it was. Sara and I had been cheerleaders together, and after I stopped cheerleading, she needed the sweater I had worn in ... 9th grade, maybe? I gladly gave it to her, and he gladly mailed it back to me two decades later.

That's when we got back in touch. We'd send a Facebook message every now and again, talk about the old days a little, but mostly we'd talk about the current days. How he had become a father, and then a grandfather. How he and Sara were going to Hawaii for their 25-year anniversary. How he didn't enjoy working much. I'd tell him about my four-legged kids, how Vic and I went to Hawaii for our 25-year anniversary, and how I didn't enjoy working much. (No offense, work peeps—you know I love you.)

A year might go by between messages, and then something would remind one of us of the other, and we'd reach out, exchange messages or emails for a few days, and go dormant again. It was an easy friendship.

I saw Lynn for the last time seven years ago, at my dad's funeral. Seven years to the day before he himself passed away. (I know this because OneDrive sends me a daily recap of all the pictures from that day.) I remember looking out and seeing him and two of the girls from our little high school group and felt not only that I was loved but also that my dad was. It was so special.

We continued our "every now and again" messaging after that, and it was just about getting to be time for one of us to reach out. I'm sorry that I missed one last chance to hear one of his dad jokes and have a laugh with such a wonderful, caring person.

My heart goes out to Sara and their children, Sloane and Chandler. If Lynn was nothing else, he was a devoted family man who loved his family with all his heart.

As usual in a blog post from me, I'd like to leave with a few more pictures:

Lynn with his mom and dad

Lynn with his dog—I want to say her name was Libby,
but come on, guys, it's been 45 years

My senior prom—him in a classic 70s tux (even though this was 1981)
and me with classic 70s feathered hair

At my dad's funeral—only Lynn and Mary can make a funeral happy

In the receiving line after the funeral