Larry, Gene, and Mike

Left to right: Michael, Carol, Gene.
Larry is excluded.

My mother has three brothers. It was always a lamentable fact of her life that she never had a sister. Despite this, I believe her childhood existence was made ten times more exciting by these boys, who were perhaps the world's best mischief makers.
My uncles keep very good company. They have all gone in the teaching direction; namely at BYU-Idaho and the Marriott School of Business. Through these dynamic, intelligent men I claim a distant aquaintaince to such well-knowns as Orson Scott Card and James Christensen.
Larry, the eldest, has a subtle, intelligent, wit, with a definite value and stress upon the written word. Some of the best book discussions I have ever encountered have taken place in his living room. There are shelves upon shelves of books stacked floor to ceiling-- all of which he's read. In the bedroom downstairs- lovingly referred to as "Tut's tomb"- I have been happily introduced to Dante's Inferno, the biography of Adolph Hitler, and Voltaire's Candide.
Walking a few blocks west of Uncle Larry's brings us to Uncle Gene's house. This house has harbored all my ideals of joyful cousindom. Squirt gun fights, laser tag, Nintendo, and always a few odd cats... Gene's was the highlight of Idaho visits. The backyard is a fairyland, with waterfalls and century old trees. I always delighted in Phyllis's claw footed tubs, and in the antiquity of the quaint kitchen. Talking to my uncle Gene creates a certain level of intensity that is formidable and exciting simultaneously. Gene is, in every respect, the Mr. Crump of BYU-Idaho. Most of the students hate him, because of the accelerated level of his class. And yet he is well loved in the community because students approach his course as children and leave as emperors. Passing is a notable feat.
Traveling south several hours brings us to the last and youngest brother, Michael. Michael is a perfectly balanced combination of his two brothers, and the sibling who was closest to my mother. He too is intense, and talking to him is like coming up with a thesis; you have to dig through his words to comprehend, and then surmise until you can tell him your own thoughts on the case. Michael has a lovely voice, and no one will ever forget how he would sing in church with my Grandpa; two angelic tenors who blended perfectly.
Larry, Gene, and Mike are the epitome of uncles, and I could not have asked for a more perfect trio. If I ever need a book to read, a lively debate, or help with a thesis, I'll know who to call.

Dolli

My grandma Dolli is my namesake.
She was a tiny spitfire with naturally jet-black hair. When I picture her in my mind she is wearing pink lipstick and waving her cane. She was filled to the brim with hot Spanish blood; her quick temper and impassioned actions have become legend in the Thompson family.
She grew up devoutly Catholic. Her prayers were long, studious, and heartfelt. Every day she visited our house her footsteps on my pink carpet led to three secret Kit-Kats on my nightstand: one for Koseli, one for Shirsti, and one for me. It was this simple spirit of giving that set Dolli apart from everyone else.
I have saved every letter I have received from Grandma. The envelopes are colorfully ornamented with Suzie's Zoo stickers. Inside the paper is line upon line of perfect, dark, cursive. I know her best through this mail correspondence. Indeed, she kept friends from the first or second grade this way. She was an expert in that category.
She spoke her mind. Sometimes this was uncomfortable for us, but we always brushed it off. She was too kind and good to take offense. After all, Grandma Dolli was the most spontaneous and the wisest woman I have ever known.
A few weeks before she passed away she took to drinking coffee. It spruced her up, she said. When my mother went to visit her, my dear grandma tried to hide the evidence.
"Bring it in quietly," she'd tell the nurses, "I don't want Carol to know."
Dolli was the woman who took the unfortunate under wings. She spoiled, and pinched, and pampered all of us.
It was an honor to know her.

Grandpa Chris

My Grandpa Christensen is an inventor.
In his garage are trinkets and wood shavings from past failed inventions, projects currently in operation, and plans laid out for future inspiration. When he works he wears plaid flannel shirts and suspenders.
He is my only claim to fame.
A slight case of Parkinson's makes him shake a little. When he hugs me he kisses me on the cheeks and says,
"I sure do love ya sweetheart."
When he talks about wood, or chemicals, or cars, his eyes light up and he becomes a little boy. When he has a new idea his mind ticks visibly, and one can see him turning cartwheels and running a million miles a minute in his brilliant brain.
When my grandma became ill he used to sit with her in the hospital room. He was so sad, so very, very, sad. He would sit and sit and hold her hand, and he wouldn't say anything at all when she died.
Around my grandpa is an aura of old fashioned politeness and the humility that wisdom brings. His patience sets him apart and it causes him to glow.
I am afraid to ever lose him.

Grandpa T.

His name was Elmer Thompson-E.T. for short- and he was the first to die.
It happened on the eighteenth hole of the Teton Golf Course. He tapped his ball into the hole, and the game was over. It was all over. Heart attack, they said. We'll put up a bench in his memory.
I was in third grade.

Growing up with E.T., as my mother remembers, was always an adventure. He was an entrepreneur, a business man who always let his gentle disposition lose him money. He ran a little old fashioned grocery store and gas station, like the A&P in John Updike's short story. He was always a little quiet. But while he was shy he had a beautiful voice and beautiful generosity. Many renters of the trailer park boarded free, and many workers came into the store for complimentary sandwiches and beer. That was my grandpa; pure, unrestrained, kindness... mixed with a little cheer.

I remember him in a wool golf hat. Like a shoemaker elf, he was always busy fixing something for somebody else. He smelled like leather, and work, and something naturally sweet and good. When he and Grandma would come and stay, he would sit down with us at dinner and say to my dad, "So, Doc, what's the news?" I remember looking at a picture of him at a tap-dance recital with his dancing partner, and not comprehending that this other woman was not my grandmother. I have never seen two people more fully in love than my grandparents, and it is through their relationship that my ideals of courtship and marriage blossomed. My grandpa never had a piano lesson, but he played wonderfully by ear, and to her he sang those old songs that come in the big ballad books.
"That damn piano," Grandma would say.
But then she would smile, because she loved him.
We all did.