Monday morning

6 February 2017

— Happy Birthday, Uncle Stanley

Good Morning All,

My dad’s kid brother, Stanley, got stuck in the birth canal a minute or so too long. As a result, he never got to be more than about eight mentally and emotionally. There are worse ages go get stuck at. (You can probably name off the top of your head a half dozen acquaintances stuck at around fourteen.) 

Stan was one of my favorite uncles. When he was happy, which was a lot of the time, he sang. Loudly. This included out at our summer cottage at 4:00 in the morning. He lived in Whittier, California, and had an autographed picture of President Nixon on his wall. He worked for years and years as a box boy in a supermarket; he had a smile for everyone, and was undoubtedly held in as much affection by the store’s customers as by the kids whom he saw safely across the street at his other job as a crossing guard. 

He took View Master stereoptic slide pictures of all us kids. He earned himself a license as a Morse Code operator. Every Christmas he sent us kids games , some of which he made himself. The tradition in our house was we could each open one present from under the tree on Christmas Eve. We always chose Uncle Stan’s.

One of my best memories of him is of an evening in June out the cottage. He and Johs, age about eight, and Holly, age about six, are down under the pines at the bottom of the front slope. They have jam jars with nail holes in the metal lids, and grass inside. Johs and Holly are having fun, for sure, but Uncle Stan, in his seventies, is over the moon. He is singing away because he is with his brother’s son’s kids on a warm summer night doing just the sort of thing he loved doing best.

In the Dumbest Things I’ve Ever Done Department: During the middle of that Blizzard of 1978 and its 26 inches of snow, Norman, Britta, Johs, and I moved out of  our parents’ house in Arlington to an apartment we’d just rented in Acton. Britta was less than enthusiastic about the idea, but Norman and I being New Englanders figured, hey, what’s a little snow? We were in Norman’s blue Datsun pick-up truck, Britta between us, Johs, at seven months, bundled up in Britta’s arms. The snow was so thick it really did seem we were sitting inside a large pillow, visibility about one-inch beyond the windshield wipers. 

Happily, our furniture in the back consisted mostly of heavy bricks and blanks for bookcases and bed frames. Otherwise, we’d never have had the traction needed. As it was, this 16 mile, normally 25 minute journey, took over three hours, I much of the time outside walking beside the truck to keep us from going off the road.

Just by way of incidentally, I shall resist saying much about yesterday’s football game. I appreciate that a great many people are not enamored of the New England Patriots. There are even some who might think Tom Brady got what he deserved for the Deflate-a-gate Farce. Which of course made old QB-12 that much more coldly focused and determined. One can only imagine how relieved Commissioner Goodell must have felt during the first three quarters, thankful he would not have to hand Brady the Lambert Trophy. And then … and then … well, up there on the podium, Brady could be forgiven for quoting the inimitable Jackie Gleason, “Mmmmm, how sweet it is!”

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron