Yesterday we had a memorial service for my uncle Ray. He loved history and lived it too. We were close and I was honored to give the eulogy. Although I didn't do it word for word, below are my notes. Everyone should be blessed to have an uncle like him.

George Raymond Hayes (1922-2012) was devoted to his wife, family, country and church. He was my uncle and one of the best friends I've ever had. Although he was related by marriage only, when you're a kid an uncle is an uncle. In the end, he became as much a part of my family as his own. One by one he took care of three of my aunts in their last days; Aunt Julia, Aunt Nancy and his own Polish bride, Olga. You could never say that he shrunk from a difficult responsibility and was always there when he was needed.

When I was little, my mom would take me and my twin sister down to the wilds of Brick to visit Uncle Ray and Aunt Olga all the time. Since Uncle Ray was at work, I'd spend most of the day surrounded by girls. Aunt Ol', mom, Pam and me. To this day, I still can't stand shopping. If we were staying for dinner though, I knew my time would come. Guy time. I'd hear the truck in the driveway and the front door would swing open to reveal the tall Irishman, filling the door frame and smelling of gas and motor oil.

Once he'd washed up, it was into the kitchen to make a drink (when I got older, it was 2 drinks) and down to the basement we'd go. The original man cave. No, not one with a big screen TV, leather lounge chairs and a sparkling mahogany bar. Instead, there was a scarred, paint stained plywood work bench lit by bare bulbs and a few industrial florescent tubes. We sat on ancient stools with cushions patched in duct tape. Tools of all types were scattered everywhere and a model airplane under construction would be laid out on the work bench. The ceiling was just bare floor joists peppered with nails from which model airplanes were suspended on strings. It was as if the Battle of Britain was being waged right there above your head!

The conversation always started with his latest project, then ranged far and wide, but always ended with a couple of sea stories. You were almost sorry you missed the war. He made it sound like a good time. Eventually I heard some of the grittier stories and understood that it wasn't always a laugh. Before I knew it, Aunt Olga had called us up for dinner for the third time. We knew better than to push it to a fourth! The basement tradition continued almost up to the very end of his life.

Later, there were joint modeling projects and then, gulp, road trips. Before our famous trip to Canada, both of our wives cautioned me to keep an eye on him. He was in his 70's but still thought he was in his 20's. I assured them I would. I even lectured him about it. “Hey, if something bad happens, we'll never be able to do this again.” I said. Our very first night, we just happened to stay in a hotel that had a bar attached to it. No sooner had we checked in when we found ourselves sitting at it. The first test. I stuck to beer so I could keep my wits and be the voice of reason when the time came. It was a good plan with a fatal flaw. Canadian beer was twice as strong than American beer and the results are predictable. When I awoke the next morning in our shared hotel room with a pounding head, what to my bloodshot eyes should appear? Uncle Ray, dressed, showered and shaved reading a newspaper. Then came that broad Irish grin and with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “Thanks for taking care of me last night.” I can't tell you my reply, but it wasn't “Good Morning.” A wonderful sense of humor.

He could squeeze fun out of even the most mundane task. Once I enlisted a buddy to help paint Uncle Ray's house. Upon arrival we were handed two things: a paint roller and a beer. After a couple of beers and about a thousand jokes, the job was done. It was off to Frankie's for a late lunch where he insisted on picking up the tab. When my buddy and I were finally were on our way home I thanked him for giving me a hand. “Thank me for what?” he said, “You just took me to a party where a house got painted.”

There were dark times too. We buried my Aunt Olga on September 10, 2001. The next day the world changed. Not long after that, my marriage ended. While he mourned a life and I a marriage, we began meeting for lunch almost every Sunday to watch the Giants or the Yankees. For a few hours each week, we were just a couple of friends swapping stories. His were about shelling the beach during the invasion of Normandy from the deck of the USS Temptress or of chasing subs in the Atlantic and mine were, well, just not quiet that good. We had an unspoken rule to never interrupt each other, even if you'd heard the story a hundred times before. Another thing that we both knew, but never spoke about was the fact that those hours helped get us through a tough stretch and find the sunshine again.

I'm sure that many, if not all, of you in attendance today were helped or touched by him at some time or another in some small way. That was his nature. It paid off in the help he received over the last few years by his wonderful neighbors. Special thanks to his M&M girls, Margret and Maureen. And, of course, Bea, for her companionship. Both he and I are extremely grateful.

It has been a long journey from his childhood in Newburg, NY and he enjoyed the whole ride. Now he has gone to be with his Polish bride and is in good hands I'm sure. I'll end with words from an old Irish song called The Parting Glass:

See you down the basement my friend.