In Memorium

 

Recently, my Uncle Johnny passed away. It came after he’d been ill for some time, so it was not completely unexpected—but it still hit hard. Sad times indeed, and coming so soon after I lost another beloved uncle makes it doubly so. I’ve seen a lot of highs in 2025, but the lows have been among the very lowest.

I’m sitting here now, sipping a whisky—likely I’ve had too many tonight—but whenever I feel like this, sad and reflective, I do what I always do. I reach for my mental pen, caress the keyboard. I write. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s how I channel my feelings.

I recently visited my Auntie Marion, Johnny’s wife, because she wondered if I wanted to go through Johnny’s books—of course I did. I was touched to find he’d kept all my own books, each containing some signed message to him: some frivolous, some gratuitous, more often than not just a private joke only he and I could understand. Each book showed signs of reading but was still in near-pristine condition. He’d carefully stored and kept them all; they clearly meant something to him. And now I’ve got them back—they sit on my vanity shelf, alongside my own unread editions.

We always had a shared history of reading. When I was younger he lived on a farm and mostly every Sunday I’d walk the Rhiw Road, to the farmhouse. It was a lovely walk – picturesque. Most of the journey was made beneath the shadow of towering Oaks, downy Birch, shady Ash and spindly Rowan. Crab-apple, Hazel and Alder.

Boots had to be stout, waterproof because the road was not always the best. In summer it was lush, green, yellow and red with birdsong providing the score. In winter not so much with skeletal shadows cast by naked branches and icy howling winds, unimpeded by unclothed trees, stinging the face. I’d mostly be carrying a stack of books I’d read, often westerns since we both loved the genre. Cheap little paperbacks of the kind you could buy anywhere. I do miss those days.

I’d give those books, alongside a few recommendations (Edge 21 is excellent. Great shoot out at the end and I really enjoyed the Louis L’ amour. The Sackett stories are the best.) and in return he’d give me a stack of his own freshly-read books, often with recommendations of his own. I loved those weekly visits – we’d talk for hours about books, films, even music – our tastes were remarkably similar.

In later years when I became a published writer myself I’d look forward to the reviews of my books, but I always gave Johnny a copy and I was eager to visit a few weeks later and get his thoughts of the book. He was often blunt, he didn’t hold back – I admired that about him, but he was always complimentary. Perhaps the greatest feeling I ever got was when he told me he was pissed off that the main character in The Ballad of Delta Rose died at the end. But he had to, I pointed out. That was the story. Johnny nodded, aware of that but still pissed off. The character had connected with him, stepped from the printed page and become real in the landscape of the imagination. Job done, I thought.

Hey, I’m a writer.

I’ll always cherish that particular conversation.

There are so many memories to cherish, though and when my new book comes out next year it’ll be bittersweet. It’s always nice to see your work in print, but I’ll be painfully aware that I’ve lost my harshest critic, my greatest support.

Rest in peace Uncle Johnny – truly a giant of a man