A collection of cherished memories of my Uncle Bill and his lovely wife, Aunt Joyce

“I have six tickets to the Rockettes for this weekend and six tickets to Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden on Monday night. I need to sell them. Do you know anyone who might want to go?”

The need was clear and the task easy. “Barry, let me take this off your plate.” Having been in his shoes a few months earlier, I knew what he and his sisters, Joanna and Melinda, were going through.

I felt helpful and connected. Responses began to pour in regarding the tickets. I figured my husband and I could use anything that didn’t sell. It wasn’t until my train commute home that the devastating reality of it set in. Uncle Bill’s death was imminent. Given this, we would not be in NYC come Monday night.

“I’m not ok,” I uttered as I walked in the door, tears streaming down my cheeks. Texting with my cousin, I called to say goodbye and reiterate how much I loved him. Uncle Bill died a few hours later.

The next morning we prepared once again to take a pilgrimage home to North Dakota and this time, would stay through Christmas. Even in death, Bill gave us the gift of time with family. It was fitting and it sucked. As I packed my suitcase, the most honest description of what I felt was intense anger…and under it, the stinging pain of profound loss.

More than an uncle, a second father figure

On the day I was born, my Dad called his brother, Bill, and proudly announced that “Mary Roxey” had arrived. As family legend has it, Bill returned “Who the hell is Mary Roxey?!?” Boy, did Dad love to retell that story! Decades later, it brought the biggest smile to his face of pride and reminiscence.

Bearing a family name “Roxey,” Uncle Bill assumed I was a distant relative visiting for the Fourth of July. Sharing that I was “Kelly and Kristen’s younger sister,” Dad asked his older brother to be my Godfather. The protective bond of a father figure came solidly into place, never to be shaken.

As a little girl, Uncle Bill scared me. He could be gruff at times. He said what he thought. And most characteristically, he saw everything. Whether it was the beauty of a flower captured in a photograph or the correctable behavior of a small child, Bill never missed a moment to have impact.

One Christmas, I had a bad cold and grossly coughed upward into the air. It might have been my first lesson in civil liberties. My right to NOT cover my nose ended where Uncle Bill’s right to breath clean air began.

Endowed with unruly curly hair, I strongly recollect Uncle Bill asking me if I had “brushed my hair” every time he saw me. I am sure the answer was “no” most days. The message was clear, put your best self forward each day.

It didn’t take me long to realize that Uncle Bill’s bark was worse than his bite. He called me “Mary, Mary” and would cuddle me close in his recliner and kiss my forehead.

As a little girl, Uncle Bill would grab his camera, take me outside and pose me in front of a wooden wagon wheel or some other rustic object. “Sweets. Look here, Sweets,” he’d call to me trying to get the perfect shot. I reveled in his attention.

Aunt Joyce involved me often in their weekend plans, whether it was participating in a traveling play about “Apron Strings” or dressing up for ladies’ fashion shows. I relished the costume closet in their basement, trying on everything from orange 1970s bridesmaid dresses from my parent’s wedding to a homemade Halloween costume of a “sack of potatoes.” Joyce encouraged me to wear it again to add some pep at Nash School’s Spud Night.

Entering the family right as Aunt Joyce and Uncle Bill became “empty nesters” and years before the “World’s Most Perfect Grandchildren” came onto the scene, I hit the jackpot in having lots of time with the two of them growing up. Around town, I was frequently asked if I was their daughter, I always smiled explaining that I was their niece and that Uncle Bill was my Godfather.

Holidays at Eastwood

Every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving was spent at Uncle Bill & Aunt Joyce’s home, known in our family as “Eastwood,” surrounded with ~40 of my closest family members, spanning four generations. Watching Joyce host with such grace, joy, and hospitality made a big impact on me.

Grandpa Harley, Dad, and Uncle Bill would ceremoniously fall asleep in front of the TV after the noon meal. Every kid in the house knew that Christmas presents had to wait until they were awake and all the dishes were clean. To pass the time, the board games would come out and the living room would be filled with the laughter of cousins.

This past Christmas Joanna caught my son, Zachary (7), taking off down the hallway with an entire bag of Joyce’s famous homemade buns from the kitchen. After negotiating him down to about 1/4 of the bag, we chuckled to ourselves “smart kid!” He wanted to bring them back in his suitcase to New York. I have carried on Joyce’s Scandinavian Krumkake and Lefse recipes in our family traditions, but have not attempted her homemade buns!

Faith, Family, & the Dairy Queen

Sunday mornings meant church followed by lunch at the Dairy Queen. My hometown had two double-wide booths seated together in the back. If it were between the hours of 11:45am – 1:00 pm on a Sunday for most of the 1970s to early 2000s – the booths were sure to be occupied by ten to fifteen members of the extended Kingsbury family. Our “cousins” the Hensrud’s, Shuley’s, Fedje’s, Swartz’s and Johnston’s were always welcome, and often grabbed adjacent booths.

On one such Sunday, I lost a tooth in a bite of my Dairy Queen hot dog. I was doddling in the bathroom playing with the gap in my teeth and my immediate family forgot me. It was before the age of cell phones, but Uncle Bill came my rescue getting on the farm’s two-way radio in his pick-up, taking delight in telling my Dad to come back to get his daughter. “Over and out.”

Coming of age as a Kingsbury

Coming of age in a rural agricultural state, the weeks of the Walsh County Fair were particularly formative. Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce were always around the fairgrounds if needed. Without fail, Bill would win the photography show and garner one of those big purple rosette ribbons. I remember shared pride the first time I won grand prize for a 4-H project.

When Joyce decided to run for a seat in the state legislature, I pulled their grandkids, Amanda and Brittany, in a wagon at parades, handing out “Vote for Joyce” campaign flyers with tremendous pride. When I was old enough, I drove a convertible with her running mate sitting in the back. Uncle Bill, of course, always drove Aunt Joyce.

The importance of serving others and doing good in your community was beautifully modeled. I’ll always remember how Uncle Bill supported Aunt Joyce in pursuing her ambitions. They were a true team and one made the other stronger and better.

Prom night Senior year

In high school, I remember going over to Bill & Joyce’s house each year to get ready for the prom. Given they lived in town, it saved me a trip out to the farm and always felt special. I’d curl my hair and pin it into an up-do. I put on my make-up and dress and walked upstairs for the big reveal. My senior year, I wore a two-piece gown with a sizable part of my midsection showing. I still remember Uncle Bill’s eyes when he saw me, “Sheesh!!!!”

Not having a back-up option, I sheepishly asked, “Uncle Bill, how do I look?” “You look like you’re thirty!” As my 17-year-old self wondered what he’d say next, Uncle Bill made his point crystal clear, “If you weren’t MY NIECE, I’d think you looked beautiful.” He cut off the conversation to have a word with my date.

Leaving the nest

The first time I told Uncle Bill about my now husband, Matthew, he cut to the chase, asking if “he was a kissing friend.” At the time, the answer was “no.” I gave him an update when that changed about 6 months later. My husband still recalls what it felt like to be “sized up” by Uncle Bill.

The years went by punctuated by graduations, weddings, and baptisms of children. Uncle Bill was always there. Whenever I could, I tried to catch some special time visiting with Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce.

Some of my favorite adult memories with Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce were on their trips to New York. While Uncle Bill could never imagine actually living there, he enjoyed photographing Times Square and visiting the many historic buildings. I think it also helped him see me as the young woman I had grown up to be and understand that part of my life.

The first time he visited, I worked out of an office building located on Wall Street. The group from Grafton, ND was heading to the World Trade Center site, which was only a few blocks away. I took my lunch break and walked over to greet them at the subway. I could tell what a powerful experience it was for Uncle Bill to take it all in and photograph Ground Zero.

At another point, we met up at the famous Carnegie Deli. Sitting across the booth from Uncle Bill, his eyes lit up as his pastrami sandwich was delivered to the table, of course, with a bottle of Tabasco sauce at Bill’s request. One night, Matt and I met him after work in Times Square in the pouring rain. The group had been trying unsuccessfully to get a cab to make it to an Off-Broadway Theatre. One member of the group was confidently leading them in the wrong direction.

My husband, Matt, took the lead holding his umbrella up in the air and redirected the group. I grabbed Uncle Bill’s arm, bringing up the rear as he struggled with some back pain. One woman from Grafton asked Matt if he was an angel sent to help them. Another woman asked if he was a hired tour guide. Cracking a grin, he responded that he had “married a Kingsbury” and knew where he was going. That was enough to gain their trust. We safely delivered the group to the theatre in time for the opening curtain. With a kiss, I told Uncle Bill I’d see him in the morning.

On another photography trip to the east coast, Uncle Bill, Aunt Joyce, and a group from Grafton made their way to Boston. Nine months pregnant, I remember trying to figure out how to make the 3 hr. journey to meet up with him. My daughter, Natalie, had different plans for us.

On July 4th, 2011, Uncle Bill & Aunt Joyce was the first phone call we made after notifying my immediate family that she had been born. The story of my own birth danced in my mind as we joked about how a new family member, Natalie Allison, had come for a visit for the Fourth of July.

More than an uncle, forever in my heart

My last memory with Uncle Bill occurred 10 years later this past August. Flying home in the middle of the night to be at my Dad’s bedside, Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce were at the hospital when I arrived. Taking turns rotating through Dad’s hospital room, having Bill and Joyce in the family waiting area with my siblings and me felt as comforting and as natural as having my own parents sitting with us. Bill seemed a bit stunned and quiet, processing the loss of his younger brother. Joyce lighten the atmosphere with her natural levity, strength, and grace.

I’d spend the coming week at their kitchen table next to Uncle Bill planning Dad’s funeral. Bill flipped through electronic files of his photography, noting image numbers on a piece of paper next to his computer. For the most part, we worked side-by-side in the comfortable silence that comes with love and closeness, compounded by shared grief.

From time to time, Uncle Bill would look up and ask if I’d thought about this or that detail of the arrangements. Given I had never planned a funeral before, I certainly hadn’t. He’d give his opinion of what my Dad would want and he’d help me figure out how to get it done. When it came to selecting honorary pallbearers, Bill pulled out his phone and gave me each name and phone number I needed to call to honor my Dad’s wishes.

Uncle Bill was never the same after Dad died. More than once he expressed not appreciating what an impact it would have on him, nor how much he truly loved my dad until he was gone. My very last memory of Uncle Bill was holding his hand in the gathering space of the church following Dad’s funeral as loved ones shared stories of his life. He and I were both quiet and taking it all in.

I had previously asked Uncle Bill if he wanted to kick off the storytelling. He didn’t feel up to it, so his son, Barry, opened. After the final story, Uncle Bill stood up. He recalled growing up with my Dad and their conversations about Dad’s first crush/kiss. If you had told me then, that it was my last meaningful moment with Uncle Bill, I don’t think I could have taken it in. I was processing the grief of losing my own father.

I love you, Uncle Bill. I miss you more than I could possibly express. Both you and Dad wanted me to move home to the Midwest and for awhile I thought I would. You each warned me to be careful “Not to get too big for my britches…” living in New York City. I understand now that it was said with love.

Your underlying message was “‘Never forget where you’ve come from and hold onto your values.” My family will always be my greatest treasure. I cherish the lessons you instilled in me. Thank you for investing in me and teaching me to see the beauty in all things.

I will never know who you were talking to, but the night before my Dad’s funeral I heard you on the phone to someone talking about me. You touted that I was “CEO of NYU Langone and you couldn’t believe how a little girl from Nash, ND had grown up to be that.” I was only the Vice President of Strategy, but hope to continue to make you proud as I grow in my career, and more importantly, as a wife and mother. I will forever carry your love of family, the beauty of God’s creation, and honest candor in my heart. Yours, Mary Mary

“You have to let your father and father figures go. You must stop seeing yourself through their eyes and trying to make them proud of you. For as long as you can remember, you have been a pleaser, depending on others to give you an identity.

You need not look at that only in a negative way.  You wanted to give your heart to others, and you did so quickly and easily. But now you are being asked to let go of all these self-made props and trust that God is enough for you. You must stop being a pleaser and reclaim your identity as a free self.”

– Fr. Henry Nouwen, “The Inner Voice of Love”