Loving aunts are good to have, but happy be the boy blessed with a bunch of spirited uncles. By "the boy" I mean me. My favorite uncles were my father's younger brothers, Monk (Clarence, actually) and Frank. From Monk I learned quite a bit about photography, basic automobile engine maintenance and a lot of other stuff. I chose the Air Force because he had served there in the second World War.
Frank was the literary uncle. He taught me to appreciate poetry and to love reading and storytelling.
Uncles, mine at least, allow you more space than your parents, teach you life lessons and give you advice. And with some uncles you also get adventures.
In July of this year there was a major fire on Jefferson Street between Second and Third Streets. A news account said a neighbor spotted the fire and ran to the fire station a few doors away only to find the firemen out on another call. The incident reminded me of an uncle-related adventure in the same neighborhood.
I was 12 or 13; I was growing fast and my face was breaking out all over, hideously. A doctor who, I felt, surely hated me prescribed a tar-like salve. I don't think it did any good, but I tried it for a while, though only in the privacy of our house.
Then one summer day Frank came by to show me his new Buick; Monk was with him. They invited me to come for a ride, and though my face was covered in gunk, I couldn't resist. We had been driving around for a while and the uncles grew thirsty; there was no air-conditioning. They stopped for a beer at what was then the Jefferson Grill at Third and Jefferson. I was invited to join them and have a Coke, but I refused to be seen in my morbid state.
I had been sitting in the car for some time when I noticed smoke coming from under the hood. Alarmed, I forgot my appearance and ran into the restaurant hollering, "Call the fire department."
While Monk and Frank followed me back to the car someone did call, and at once we heard sirens from the central station several blocks east on Third Street and from the fire house on Jefferson, which was so close the firemen could have walked over with a hose.
Frank had exited the restaurant with a bottle of beer in hand. He opened the hood, shook it and spewed it on the flames, putting out the fire. When the fire trucks arrived there were some good-natured comments from firefighters about the difference between a "fire" and a car fire. No hard feelings.
Having already embarrassed myself by crying "fire," I joined Frank and Monk in the restaurant for a Coke. All things considered, everybody seemed to have had a good time. When we were finished we got in the car and left. At the time Buick's motto was, "When better cars are built, Buick will build them." I was pretty impressed that a Buick could catch fire, be saved by a foaming Budweiser, and drive away as if nothing had happened.
Frank was the next to youngest of the four brothers, born after my father and Uncle Tom, the oldest. Frank told me once when they were kids he had come into some pennies and Tom and my dad told him that if he planted them a penny tree would come up. Frank was disappointed; no tree grew and the penny-seeds disappeared.
Frank had health problems off and on all his adult life, but he outlived his brothers. In his mid-80s he wrote a novel about the great love of his life, his wife, Cathy, who had died years earlier. Then he began working on an anecdotal family history he was never able to finish. I have a lot of his notes.
My mother read to me from children's books, but Frank read me Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart" and gave me books about pirates and science for birthdays and Christmas. I once complained, "Not another book," but I read them. I don't remember many of the gifts I received as a kid, but I remember his and still have most of them. In giving and talking about books, Frank gave me something of his enthusiasm, and something of himself.
Penny trees don't happen, but a few seeds of thoughtfulness and kindness often take root and flourish in wonderfully surprising ways.