*My narration of this story available above*
In what’s been a mighty blow for me and my family—he left us last Friday.
And while he and I weren’t always close-close, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been a constant throughout my life. If anything, Uncle Chuck was one of the most important and reliable presences in our entire family.
And I don’t use that word lightly—it’s the one word that kept popping into my head when trying to think of how to best describe him.
Reliable.
When you say someone is reliable, what you’re actually saying is—that they’re trustworthy. That you feel safe with them. That you know, deep down, no matter the hour, no matter the ask—if you need something, anything—they’ll be there.
That was Chuck.
He was always there. For all of us.
No matter who it was in our family or what they needed, Uncle Chuck was the one person who was always ready and willing.
Whether it was driving my Mimi around in her last few years when she could no longer drive, chauffeuring my mom and my aunt all over Dallas every Monday—then sitting in retail store parking lots for hours on end, patiently waiting for them to shop—or picking up and dropping off any of us at the airport for the hundredth time, or fixing whatever happened to be broken (you name it—the man was brilliant with tools and electronics).
Whatever it was, Uncle Chuck made himself available in ways so many other people only talk about.
And he did so without an ounce of hesitation or expectation.
Just his quiet, slow and steady loyalty that all of us knew we could always rely on.
He was a family man. Loyal. Honest. Highly intelligent.
Chuck was also someone who would talk your ear off about why the Cowboys lost on Sunday. And one of his and my shared passions—trashing Jerry Jones. But beneath all the sports banter was a good-hearted man who just loved him some Dallas Cowboys.
These last few years haven’t been easy on him.
The truth is, Uncle Chuck hadn’t been the same since my cousin Keith, his oldest son, was murdered in Mexico five years ago.
I traveled down to Mazatlán with him and my aunt twice to help with the mess that comes after a tragedy like that—police reports, paperwork, and the absolute fucking heartbreak of sorting through your child’s belongings.
I’ll never forget standing in Keith’s condo, looking over at Chuck while he was cleaning out my cousin’s computer desk. For the first time in my life, I saw a vacancy in his eyes. A look of lost hope and deep sadness. Like all the light inside him had dimmed in a way that we’d never get to see again.
And, unfortunately, that turned out to be true.
He was in his late 80s then, but still mentally sharp. Even still, that kind of grief has a way of aging anyone in a matter of moments.
He never was able to talk about Keith’s passing—but he didn’t need to. We all saw and felt the impact it had on him. And justifiably so. Uncle Chuck and my cousin Keifer were extremely close. They talked on the phone every single day—sometimes multiple times per day. So not only had he tragically lost his son, but he also tragically lost his best friend.
I have no doubt that my cousin was there when Chuck crossed over—standing, giggling, and waiting for his dad with open arms.
I’d now like to share one of my favorite and most personal memories of Uncle Chuck.
It happened in my mid-20s, not long after my second backpacking trip through Central and Western Europe.
I’d come back to the States with some traveling debt, but after working 3 jobs, I’d saved up enough to put towards a downpayment. I went to the dealership on my own, hoping to pull off the deal solo. Things were moving smoothly—but there was one small problem: I needed a cosigner.
The obvious answer would’ve been to reach out to my dad, but for whatever the reason, I can’t remember, he and I were in the midst of one of our Mexican standoffs. And so when I finally mustered up the courage to call and ask for his help, he declined.
Shit, man. I remember standing in the salesman’s all-glass office, crushed—and embarrassed. I’d spent hours wheeling and dealing, with every expectation I’d be driving off that lot with a new set of wheels.
And then I remembered Chuck.
It was a big ask, I knew that. So I called my mom first to see if she thought it was a good idea. “It’s up to you, son. You know Chuckie. He’ll probably do it, but it is one hell of a responsibility.”
I knew if I asked, I would never do anything that might put his vouching for me at risk.
So I swallowed my pride—and I called him.
Without hesitation, 30 minutes later, Chuck pulled up to that Honda dealership’s parking lot, moseyed through those glass doors, sat directly to my right at the salesman’s desk, and in his infamous nonchalant fashion, simply asked, “Hey, where do I sign?”
No pause. No lecture. No guilt trip.
While that car only lasted me a year (I’d end up selling it for a bit of profit in order to help fund my next trip), it’s a familial favor that I’ll remember ’til the day I die.
I know a lot of people in my life who have great families. But I don’t know how many of them are lucky enough to have a legend as reliable—and as lovable—as Uncle Chuck.
We were.
His safe and dependable ways were something our family so desperately needed.
He will never be forgotten.
But he will always, always be missed.
Rest in Paradise, Uncle Charlie. And please give Mimi, Keifer, and my Dad all a big bear hug from me.
Godspeed,
Adrian
Dedicated to our Snow’s : Aunt Pat, Chad, Sara, Elijah & Kate—we love you all!
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