Unkie Jim

Unkie Jim was not a “real” uncle. Nonetheless, he was a “real” member of our family – a family friend so dear that we counted him as one of our own. Jim shared every major holiday with us at our house and no occasion was more joyous than was his arrival for Christmas. Jim met my parents when they were all working together during World War II as scientists doing psychology research for the military. Their friendship lasted a lifetime, broken only by my parents’ passing.

Jim was a lifelong bachelor, thesbian, and gourmet cook. He lived in Washington D.C. and then California while my folks lived in Massachusetts. Despite the distance he would drive across the country at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays to celebrate with us. He would usually arrive in the middle of the night and not wanting to disturb us would sleep in his car despite the cold. For one of my birthdays he arrived early but instead of sleeping in the car, he spent the hours sitting on the floor of our screened porch blowing up balloons and shaping them into animals.  To my absolute delight, the porch was alive with balloon animals when I woke up and Unkie Jim was asleep on the floor.

Whenever we saw each other he would greet me with happy crys of ”Pwincess Lin, Pwincess Lin. Will you come out and play with me?” Unkie Jim would then proceed to tell jokes, most of which I did not understand, but his enjoyment was contagious and we would all be laughing over his craziness. Once, when I was a teenager, a package arrived for me, the label written in Jim’s script and addressed to Pwincess Lin.  I opened the package to find it contained a pair of three-legged pantyhose. No note. No explanation. Unkie Jim must have had a thing for stockings — one Christmas my father opened his gift from Jim; it was a dozen “Fashion Black” silk stockings. The next Christmas my dad wrapped them and gave them to Jim. This back and forth giving of the stockings went on for decades and was as much a ritual of our family Christmas as anything could be. I still  have the box of stockings in the attic.

It was Jim who gave my husband the name “Frog.” I was “Pwincess Lin” and the frog (really a handsome prince) won her heart. I think Jim was just a little jealous that some other guy had taken away his little girl. For the rest of our lives whenever Jim would call he would say, “Oh, how is the frog? Is he green and slimey yet?”

Jim and my mother shared a love of the theatre and both were heavily involved in community productions. Jim loved to tell the story about once when he phoned my foks and asked “what are you doing?” My mother replied “Joseph is cueing me.” (meaning he was helping her learn her lines for a play!). Jim responded with “Well, for goodness sakes do not answer the phone then or you will make him feel inadequate! Call me when you are finished.” Jim kept us in hysterics.

But back to when I was younger: as I mentioned, Jim was a gourmet cook. His arrival for Thanksgiving marked the beginning of a day of cooking during which all the adults would quench their thirst with martinis beginning as soon as they thought was respectable (which I suspect was around 10:00 AM). By the time the stuffing was made and the bird was in the oven the household was more than a little tipsy. My brother and I would follow the trail of abandoned martinis, extracting the gin soaked olives to eat as snacks. By dinner time we were mellow children.

Unkie Jim’s visits always included a trip to the North End to get almond macaroons from a little Italian bakery. These were luscious morsels and beautiful as well, in assorted pastel colors each topped with a cherry. Jim would buy two boxes knowing that my brother and I would plow through the cookies on the way home. Even though the holiday meal prepartions were a day-long event, Jim always managed to make some special treats that he knew the kids loved. My favorite was chicken livers on water chestnuts wrapped in bacon (yes, I had sophisticated taste for a kid). My brother liked jello cubes with canned fruit salad in them.

We still hear from Unkie Jim a few times a year. He will call out of the blue, never announcing himself, just launching into a joke followed by talk of  how much he dislikes the President or some other rant. When I don’t hear from Jim for awhile I worry — he is so very old now and he lives alone with an ancient dog companion. There are few people in the world of my memories more precious than Unkie Jim. How lucky we were to have him in our family.