Jack Hughes, a beloved uncle and the eldest of my mother’s three younger brothers, died Easter weekend of natural causes. He was 86 years old.
I’ll remember Jack as one of the most decent, honest, and loyal human beings I’ve ever encountered. While he wasn’t wealthy in a material sense, he was rich beyond measure in the love and admiration he received from his friends and family members. Family was important to Jack, and because I was his first nephew in what would become a long line of nieces and nephews, I was therefore important to him. He made my younger brother and I feel that importance from an early age onward, and I always loved him for it.
When I was a young boy and confronted with the death or serious illness of a family member, Jack would always be there, his caring and inner strength a much needed boost, in effect wrapping me in a blanket of comfort and well-being before such an event could overwhelm me. As I got older, Jack would still be there when those same conditions arose, still providing that calming, reassuring presence with such ease and dependability. When bad things happened, I looked for Jack. And, inevitably, I would always find him. I loved him for that, too.
Jack enjoyed a laugh, and after he married Barbara, he laughed a lot. Both he and Barbara had previously experienced the painful loss of a spouse, so they were ready to laugh, needed to laugh. We have an exceptionally strong tradition of storytelling in our family, and we found that Barbara could turn a tale to match any of us. Barbara was good for Jack, and good for our family. As for Jack, he didn’t have the sort of fragile ego that kept him from laughing at himself. He could needle and be needled, giveth and receiveth, and always in fun. A room was a brighter, better place with Jack in it.
When it came time to answer the dinner bell, Jack had no shame in being the first through the food line. In fact, if Jack wasn’t the first to spoon his way through the home-cooked Southern goodness spread out before him, who knew what might’ve transpired? Not to worry, though. It never happened.
Jack and I talked often of Chicago, a city he called home for a time in the Fifties, and a place I have visited often. In my childhood he sent me a baseball that had been fouled into the Wrigley Field stands by Hall of Famer Richie Ashburn of the Phillies. I still have that old baseball in my closet, safely ensconced in the pocket of my equally old glove. It’s not Richie Ashburn whom I think of when I see that ball. No, I think of Jack. Always Jack.
Any person would be truly blessed to have such an uncle as Jack Hughes. I was so blessed, and I’ll be eternally grateful for Jack’s presence and influence in my life. In fact, I was blessed with three such uncles, two of whom remain as friends and lifelong role models. Just like Jack.
Thank you, Uncle Jack, for the great example you provided for me. For all you gave me. For all you taught me. For all the times I looked for you and found you when you could have been elsewhere. You were greatly loved. And you will be greatly missed.
