Hey beautiful souls! Today we're talking about the kind of love that shapes your whole childhood, the uncle who made you feel like the most special person in the world, and how some people love so perfectly that even dementia can't erase it...

Y'all, there are dates that just live in your body differently. Today is one of those days, it's the anniversary of losing my Uncle Herbert, and honey, even though he's been gone, his love is still so loud in my life that sometimes I catch myself wanting to call him up and share a joke.

Let me tell you about the man who sent me my first Nintendo, who "whooped" my dolls before sending them (but never really did), and who loved me so fiercely. 

This is about the uncle who taught me what it means to be someone's favorite person, and why that kind of love never really leaves you.

The Nintendo That Started Everything

Picture this: Little me, probably bouncing off the walls with excitement, because Uncle Herbert had sent me something that would make me the absolute coolest kid in the entire neighborhood. Not just any Nintendo: we're talking the original, with Super Mario Brothers AND Duck Hunt. I was the FIRST kid on my block to have one.

Y'all understand what that meant in those days? Uncle Herbert didn't just send me a gift: he sent me status, bragging rights, and endless hours of pure joy. But more than that, he sent me the message that I was worth getting the best, the newest, the thing that would make other kids jealous.

That was Uncle Herbert, he didn't just love you, he loved you in ways that made you feel important to the whole world.

The Dolls He "Had to Whoop First"

But honey, let me tell you about Uncle Herbert's sense of humor, because this man was a comedian before I even knew I wanted to be one.

He would send me dolls, beautiful dolls that I treasured, but he'd call me up and say with the most serious voice: "Nicki, I had to whoop that baby first because I didn't want to send you a bad baby!"

And y'all, I would CRY. "Don't spank my baby! Uncle Herbert, don't hurt my baby!" 😂

This man would have me in TEARS worried about a doll I hadn't even received yet. But when that package arrived? That doll would be in perfect condition, completely unopened, pristine. He was always joking, always playing, always finding ways to make ordinary moments memorable.

Looking back, I realize he was teaching me something beautiful, he was showing me that love can be playful, that the people who care about you will tease you gently, and that sometimes the best gifts come wrapped in laughter.

HomeTown Buffet Phone Calls and Perfect Timing

When I got older, Uncle Herbert and I found our rhythm. He'd call me while he was eating at his favorite spot, HomeTown Buffet, and we'd talk about everything. Music, my art pieces, life, dreams, and always, ALWAYS jokes.

I loved the sound of his laugh, y'all. As someone who discovered I had comedy in my blood, making Uncle Herbert laugh felt like winning awards. His laugh was deep and genuine and it made you want to be funnier just to hear it again.

I remember one time he told me a joke -- and it was MY joke. A joke I had told HIM. So I said, "Hey! Wait...that's my joke, you can't tell me my own joke!!!"

And honey, we both LOST IT!!! He laughed so loud, I laughed so hard, and in that moment I understood something beautiful about love: when someone loves you, they don't just enjoy your jokes, they treasure them enough to remember them, to make them part of their own joy.

That's the Uncle Herbert effect:  he didn't just listen to you, he collected the best parts of you and carried them with him.

Following My Shadow: The Art of Precision

When we'd visit, I was Uncle Herbert's shadow. This man could paint cars with such precision, such artistry, that it looked like magic. But it wasn't just the painting, it was the detailing. He would clean a car so thoroughly, with such attention to every surface, that you could see your reflection on the outside AND the inside of that vehicle.

I would watch him work, mesmerized by his focus, his patience, his commitment to excellence. He taught me without words that when you do something, you do it right. You pay attention to details that other people might miss. You take pride in craftsmanship.

My mama always said he was the epitome of a brother: loving, protective, attentive, supportive. But watching him work taught me he was also the epitome of an artist. He just happened to use cars as his canvas.

Now when I create art, I think of Uncle Herbert's hands moving with such purpose, such care. I think about how he showed me that everything you touch can be made more beautiful if you approach it with intention and love.

The Day Dementia Couldn't Touch Love

The last time I saw Uncle Herbert, he was battling dementia. Y'all know how cruel that disease can be: it steals memories, faces, connections that took decades to build. I was honestly scared he wouldn't remember me.

But my sister, being her mischievous self, decided to test him. She asked, "Uncle Herbert, who's your favorite niece?"

Before she could even finish the question: I'm talking BEFORE she got all the words out -- he said quickly and clearly: "Nicki!"

My sister was MAD! 😂

But then Uncle Herbert looked right at me and winked. Even with dementia trying to steal his memories, his heart remembered exactly who I was. His love for me was stronger than any disease trying to take it away.

In that moment, I learned something profound about real love: it lives deeper than memory, deeper than recognition, deeper than the mind. It lives in a place that can't be touched by illness or time.

The Way He Said "Love"

Uncle Herbert had this way of telling me he loved me that I'll never forget. His whole voice would change. He'd put this emphasis, this STRESS on the word "love" like he was making sure I understood the weight of what he was saying.

Not just "I love you" but "I LOVE you."

Like he was signing his name to it. Like he was making a promise. Like he was ensuring that even after he was gone, I'd remember exactly how it felt to be loved that completely.

And honey, it worked. Even now, when I hear those words from other people, I measure them against Uncle Herbert's version. He set the standard for what  (even the word) love should sound like.

The Artist's Heart He Gave Me

When I play the blues now, I think of Uncle Herbert. When I'm working on an art piece, focusing on details that other people might rush through, I think of Uncle Herbert's precision with those cars. When I hear a great joke, my first instinct is still to want to pick up the phone and share it with him.

He didn't just support my creativity: he modeled it. He showed me that artistry isn't just about paint on canvas or music from instruments. It's about approaching everything you do with care, with intention, with pride in your craft.

He taught me that being an artist means paying attention to details, taking time to get things right, and finding beauty in the ordinary work of your hands.

The Lesson That Lives Forever

What I learned from being loved like that, the way Uncle Herbert loved me, is something I hope to pass on to my daughter, to everyone I encounter.

I learned that love isn't just a feeling, it's an action. It's sending the Nintendo that makes someone special. It's remembering their jokes well enough to tell them back. It's working with such excellence that people want to watch you create. It's saying "I love you" like you mean it every single time.

I learned that when you love someone, you don't just love them in the moment, you love them in a way that becomes part of their foundation. Uncle Herbert's love became part of my confidence, my creativity, my understanding of my own worth.

I learned that real love survives everything: distance, time, illness, even death. It becomes part of who the loved person becomes.

The Uncle Herbert Standard

Uncle Herbert set a standard for how uncles should love their nieces, how adults should see children, how people should show up for each other. He made me feel like I was the most special person in the world, and that feeling became part of my DNA.

Now when I interact with young people, I try to channel that Uncle Herbert energy. I try to make them feel seen, valued, remembered. I try to love them in ways that will become part of their foundation, just like his love became part of mine.

When I choose the perfect gift, when I remember someone's joke, when I put extra care into my work: that's Uncle Herbert living through me.

Missing Him in Everything

The hardest part about losing Uncle Herbert isn't just missing him, it's missing all the moments I want to share with him. Every time I create something beautiful, every time I hear the perfect joke, every time I achieve something I'm proud of, I want to call him up and hear that deep, genuine laugh.

But here's what I'm learning: the desire to share joy with someone you love doesn't end when they're gone. It just transforms. Now when I create art, I create it with Uncle Herbert's precision. When I tell jokes, I tell them with his timing. When I love people, I try to love them with his intentionality.

The phone calls may have ended, but the conversation continues in everything I do.

To All the Uncle Herberts

If you have an Uncle Herbert in your life, that person who makes you feel like their favorite, who supports your dreams with actions not just words, who loves you so clearly that even illness can't erase it, treasure them. Call them up. Share a joke. Tell them how their love has shaped who you are.

And if you've lost your Uncle Herbert, know that the love they gave you didn't die with them. It became part of your story, your confidence, your understanding of what real love looks like.

The people who love us well don't just love us for a season, they love us in ways that echo through every season that follows.

Raises Glass 🥂

So here's to you, Uncle Herbert. Here's to the man who made me feel like the coolest kid with that Nintendo, who "whooped" my dolls but never really did, who laughed at my jokes and made his own from them.

Here's to your precision with paint, your attention to every detail, your way of saying "love" like it was the most important word in the dictionary.

Here's to the wink that said "you're still my favorite" even when your mind was fighting to remember. Here's to love that lives deeper than memory, stronger than illness, longer than life.

Here's to the uncle who taught me what it means to be someone's favorite person, and why that responsibility is sacred.

This one's for you, Uncle Herbert. 🥂

Keep painting masterpieces up there. Keep laughing at the good jokes. Keep loving with that deep, intentional love that changes people forever.

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Tell me, beautiful souls: Who's your Uncle Herbert? Who loved you in ways that became part of your foundation? If they're still here, call them today and share a joke. If they're gone, honor them by loving someone else the way they loved you.

And remember...when someone makes you their favorite, it's not just a title. It's a responsibility to carry their love forward, to let it become part of how you show up in the world.

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P.S. Every time I put extra care into my art, every time I remember someone's joke well enough to treasure it, every time I say "I love you" with intention and weight: that's Uncle Herbert still working his magic. The love of good people doesn't end. It just gets passed on through everything we become.