Bunker Mulligan "Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry." ~Mark Twain

As I changed things on my computer, I came across a graphic I hadn’t seen in a while. It is a scan of one of my uncle’s paintings.

My Uncle Jim was quite a man. He flew B-25s at the tail end of WWII, and was disappointed that the war ended before he got the chance to go fly in combat. He was a physicist, pilot, hunter, fisherman, and artist. I don’t remember ever seeing him in a bad mood. Even when he got mad. He was a friend to all and had the ability to put people at ease. He had a strong faith.

I spent many days at Love Field with him watching planes, and riding with him in Cessnas and Mooneys. The first airplane I ever controlled in flight was a Cessna 310, with Uncle Jim in the left seat. He flew charters with people like Mr. Justin, who gave my uncle a new pair of boots every time he visited.

He had always drawn, but began painting late in life. He eventually quit work (although he never considered flying to be work) to paint full-time. We used to joke that my aunt would lock him in a room until he came out with some painting to sell to put food on the table. He taught watercolor in his garage, and eventually at SMU. The painting above is a watercolor, which was his favorite medium. Mine, too. Every time I visited him I got an art lesson. I never got close to his skill.

He drove between Richardson, Texas, and eastern Washington many times to paint the Indians and culture of the Northwest. Raised in White Settlement, just west of Fort Worth, he was a true Texan who loved the west and the people in it. He used to ask people if they knew the difference between a Fairy Tale and a Texas Tale. “A fairy tale begins, ‘Once upon a time…’ and a Texas tale begins, ‘You sons-a-bitches ain’t gonna believe this…’.”

He passed away more than a decade ago, and I still miss him. I most regret my boys didn’t get to know him well.