My Uncle Bob was born on April Fools Day 1936 and died last March. I was not invited to the celebration of his life for a couple of reasons: 1.) His wife is an ultra Maga in a deep red part of Florida and 2.) She didn’t appreciate my depiction of her third husband in Happy Hour and Other Sorrows. Honestly I don’t think she read beyond the first few chapters otherwise she would have seen that the main character is an ungrateful dimwit who comes to appreciate her unconventional uncle, warts and all.

I did hear from one of my cousins that many, many people showed up to share their love for our uncle. That didn’t surprise me in the least. He was a people person, always willing to dive into any crowd of strangers . . . if there was singing and dancing, drinking and the telling of raunchy jokes. Laughing, always laughing. He was also very beloved in the tiny German village where he lived for about three years while working for the US Army.

When other Americans were transferred stateside, he collected their unused ration cards and bought items at the US Commissary which he knew were beyond the reach of his German neighbors. The year I was there, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Marboro cigarettes and Folgers coffee in the tin can were all the rage! But, anything American would do, even the dreaded peanut butter that Uncle Bob put on EVERYTHING! And I do mean everything. French fries, scrambled eggs, meatloaf . . .

I was amazed that somehow he managed to satisfy all the villagers on that first day of Fest Season when he traditionally handed out those rare, exotic treats from America. Each happy recipient slapped him on the back and said in a booming voice as they walked out the kitchen door:

“Danke Oncle Boob!”

I can still remember the look on his face that day when he turned to me and said. “I suppose I have you to thank for this! Oncle Boob – sheesh, neicey – what have you done to me?” (He could be a little overly dramatic.)

I guess the name stuck long after I’d gone because he never forgave me.