I'm supposed to put my Uncle Bobby's life to words. But, the truth is: his life was so complex and inscrutable-not neat, clean, and straightforward the way that words can be-but, he wouldn't have wanted it that way either. He wouldn't dare allow me to wax on and on about the sentimental lessons I learned from him or attempt to describe him-because he was, simply, indescribable-and because he'd think I'm doing it for a bribe.

How do you speak about the fierce loyalty and love, the quick and coarse wit, the unerring stubbornness, the intrinsic and powerful strength embodied in Bobby Frano-the King? I can tell you about his blue eyes. His big ole belly filled with beer. The faint scar where his cheek met the side of his mouth. And his moustache-brown, grey, then sandy white-ooh if mustaches could talk! I can tell you about the trips to Caldor, the whiffle ball games in his yard-me and Dougie versus Uncle Bob and Kaylee. He taught us how to choke up on the bat, and we played by the Kings' Rules (which were basically that Kaylee and Uncle Bob always win. He never went easy on us, hitting the ball into the Ingraham's yard even when he was half in the bag.

I can also tell you about the Easter eggs hunts: he would brag-if you find eggs with pennies, those were filled by my brothers-I filled the eggs with quarters. Sneaking home from parties, he would always say, "I'll be right back," and then he didn't turn up until you spotted him reclining in his yard the next day, glistening with sun tan lotion, listening to the game on an archaic radio. He went to Dunkin' Donuts every single morning with his old timers. He bought lunch at Firehouse deli on Saturdays, and had lunch with Mr. DeLuca during the week. On Sundays, my uncle visited my grandparents' grave and drank beers. Clearly, Uncle Bobby was a man comforted by routines, and clearly beer was central to those routines.

Uncle Bobby was one of those people who was truly bigger than life: I know his life started before me, but he made me feel like his life really began with me-that's how special I was to him. The older I got, the more honest we were with each other. No longer did he say he could only tell me stories when I got older. He told me about the bands he saw play at the Capitol, CBGBs, and Irving Plaza-my favorite venue and he was there decades before I was born. He told me he would play checkers with the old guys who sat on the benches on the outskirts of Washington Square Park-who I used to stop to watch. He used to tell me about leaving his house Friday afternoon, and returning Monday morning. What happened in between those times-well, those are stories for when you're older. And as much as he'd make my Nana worry, that middle child of 3 was her Robert John, her companion, and her willful son. Their bond, their love is apparent from the hundreds of cards he kept-signed with love, Mom.

Uncle Bob lived across the street from us, which meant that he was as much a part of our lives as if he lived in our house. He cut grass with Daddy, even when the summer was hot, and the grass clung to his socks, so they turned green. Uncle did so much with Mama, people always thought they were married. He commented every weekend when I came home the night before-"2:00 is too late Nick!" Every 4th of July, he set off fireworks. With a beer in his hand, his other hand would light the fuse, and he would hold his pants, and run away-his face as excited as our faces, alight in the summer air. He would laugh like a maniac, and I would marvel that he still had 10 fingers. And, each and every weekend in the summer he would go upstate to buy a bushel of corn to deliver to everyone in Byram. He never ate the corn-it was for everyone else, but hey-that was Uncle Bobby.

Uncle Bob gave me my first beer-which, when I was 5, I thought was just grown-up soda, and would chug when I was breathless from whiffle ball games. Uncle Bob threatened my first boyfriend-when I went up to change, I came downstairs to find Nic, as white as a ghost. "What's wrong?" I asked. And Nic answered: "Your Uncle just said that if I ever hurt you, he'd kill me, and no one would find the body." "Aww," was all I could reply-that was the essence of the King. Uncle Bob kept secret the time I first scratched the car-for about half an hour, until he ratted me out to my dad. I guess if you're lucky enough to live across the street from an uncle who was sometimes stubborn, sometimes crazy, sometimes heartbreakingly kind and loving-you're lucky enough.

My uncle was not only a man of routines-he was a man of pride. He was proud of his truck-which he waxed to make all other trucks dirty by comparison. He was proud of his family-I've never seen anyone so proud of his nephew at his wedding, or Dougie at his little league games, or Kaylee in her prom dress, or me at my graduation. And although Steven's wedding was exquisite, the journey to find him a sport coat was-interesting.

We had told Uncle Bob for months that he needed a suit, but it was two days before the wedding and we unsuccessfully checked in 2 stores. Uncle Bob was a-hefty-man, and it would be a special suit that fit him. It took Uncle Bobby no time at all to flirt with the girls behind the counter of the third store, as I looked through suits for him to wear. We found one suit-one single suit in 3 stores and I held my breath as he tried it on-and it fit him! Now came the haggling, which Uncle Bob was pretty good at when he wanted to be. But this time, just because he wanted to get out of that suit store so badly, each time the salesclerk offered a lower price, Uncle Bob would accept. On the way home, he told me he would've bought the suit full price to get out of there.

Family and friends were everything to Uncle Bobby. Sure, the beer, the sports, his truck-those were things he loved, but his family and friends were his life. And, Uncle Bob may not have lived in good health or behaved himself-but he really, truly, fiercely, beautifully lived. He lived hard and fast and deliberately. He was intensely full of life and love and laughter, and even when he was complaining-which he did a lot-he could make me laugh. Uncle Bob lived his life just like he wanted to, which is reassuring to us, as we remember the uncle, the man, the person he was. Thank you, Uncle, for loving me. Berrian Place, Dunkin Donuts, Deluca's truck yard won't be the same without you. All hail the King.