I had a couple of things to take care in Seattle, and I’ve been missing my girl Gwen something fierce, so I took a quick trip across the states.

While I was in Washington, I shot down I-5 to Kelso to visit my Uncle, and add a couple things on my “learn how to do” list. 

Truthfully, this is something I am not proud of: I have been avoiding my uncle for the past 8 years. 

Not because he has done anything wrong, in fact, quite the contrary. Alex repeatedly (and rightfully) reminds me that he is the closest thing to my father that I can find outside of myself and my sister. 

Why am I driving all over the country looking to understand my hero, when my uncle is 2 hours south of Seattle…and he’s exactly like him. 

Only..maybe cooler. I know. We will get there and you will probably agree. My dad, I am positive, agrees. 

My uncle is 8 years younger than my dad. Much like most people my father met, he made a hell of an impression on his little brother. 

Imagine my dad just blowing into town with stories from all over the country, a new car or motorcycle, with a new Stones album, just for his little brother. 

My dad was smart, handsome, charming. He had the best advice. He gave my uncle all the tools and motivation to chase whatever he wanted to be.

He told him to show up, and keep showing up until he got what he wanted. He had cool hair, cool clothes, cool taste. Cool. He was so damn cool. 

He was good with people. He knew how to have a conversation with virtually anyone. There was never a day that I felt embarrassed of my dad when I was a teenager. I preferred him to pick me and my friends up, because I liked him more than my friends parents. 

I could turn to him no matter what, and he would love me. 

My Uncle feels the exact same way. 

So in 1958 and 1986, two people were born and chose the exact same hero. We modeled ourselves off of the same guy. 

Why. the hell. are we not. closer. 

Why has grief kept me from the 3rd member of the “Charles Groesbeck was the best man ever” club?

What am I doing?

Why am I grieving this “alone”?

Better yet: why aren’t him and I building our next chapter dreams together? 

We watched as opioids, and later alcohol drained the joy and love from our hero. 

Grieving your hero becoming a “villain” and then dying before his redemption annihilated us both.

So almost 9 years later, we are standing in my Dad’s childhood garage, finally sharing our vulnerabilities. 

I break down into tears, apologizing for avoiding him. For not even listening to his voicemails, because it’s just too hard. It sounds like a ghost. I’m sent into a spiral for the rest of the day, and I have 3 kids to keep alive. (this is also no way to live)

I have been to Seattle so many times, and not driven 2 hours to visit him and I am so ashamed of this. I just need you to realize they have the same hands. Mannerisms. Height. 

This is over now. Thank god. 

Once we got past the big feelings, we started sharing who we really are.

I realized my Dad would want me to be myself, 100% and hold nothing back.

So I did, and just like his big brother, he likes me, and loves me for who I am. Like, me me. 

I carefully mentioned I am kinda like maybe a pothead. He then pulled out 2 jars of flower that his buddy grows and just GAVE TO HIM for fun. (like, way to make the right friends)

I knew he was a huge fan of music in addition to being a musician, but we finally dove in. 

Flipping through all of his vinyl, he pulled the Elliott Smith album I sent him, and we cranked it on his system.

He agrees, tragic ending but a hell of a talented musician to name your kid after. 

My uncle is also a singer, songwriter, pianist, guitarist, and probably a bunch of other awesome, in addition to creator and player of music.

He played a billion gigs in his blues band for decades. He recorded his own music and has so much cool shit that I don’t have any idea how to use (yet).

Guess what else he does?

Builds (and once raced) Bultaco bikes

He legit just sits in his garage, building bikes for fun and listening to vinyl. 

I sit on #58 and spring up and down on the bike. I say, “I could handle this”. and then realize what I am really saying…I am going to learn how to ride motorcycle. I am going to start on one of these dope Spanish bikes, and learn how to ride it. It’s not safe, I am in my mid 30’s and I am fully aware of the risks. 

Still going for it.

My Uncle looked equal parts excited and terrified he would get a call from my mom. 

We threw albums on the turntable and discussed the mechanics, the general idea and where in the states I can do this. 

He showed me shots of racers as far back as the 70’s, including women. 

He told me about Shayna Texter-Bauman, a champion Flat Track racer. She recently beat her husband in a race. 

She is also a petite gal, coming in at 5 feet tall. An inspiring detail for someone who has been told for 3 decades she cannot ride motorized bikes because she was too small.

Note: I have no interest in racing anyone. I just want to go as fast as possible and not get hurt. Simple objective. Not in it for the accolades. Just wanna fly and learn something new.

This is my uncle’s shop girl.

He told me her name, but I have no manners and forgot. Hell of a nice chick despite her shyness.

He also makes his own wine and jams from fruit trees that my Grandma planted in the 1960’s.

He is just so interesting to me.

So, in the interest in airing my dreams so that I actually try to accomplish them:

  • I am going to learn how to ride a motorcycle
  • I am going to learn how to grow my own weed, so once it is legal I’ll be ready to roll and never have to buy it again. 

I am positive this is the proudest moment my Dad would ever have with his little brother, watching him pick up the reigns once I finally let him in.

…and in true fashion to my Dad, he’s got a Starbucks cup in his hand while he expands the world for me.