The great-uncles

Before I close this blog for the summer, I want to tip my hat to the great uncles. When I was about 8 years old Great Uncle Harry came to visit. He was about 5 feet tall, 94 years old with a vegetable brush moustache, and a twinkle in his eye.

I thought he was Charlie Chaplin and Graucho Marx, all rolled into one. He was, after all, Great Aunt Elizabeth's brother.

He told stories of driving one of the first 3 cars in Montreal. There were no speed limits, no traffic signs, and if you got in an accident you didn't report it to the police you just drove the wreck home. Those were the good old days.

Mother was disapproving. She pursed her lips as if he was a recalcitrant teenager that she was obliged to make us be polite to. We were simply fascinated. But we were not, let me repeat, not, allowed to go out for a drive with him.

Not long after we drove up to the townships to visit Great Aunt Ruth. Her husband, Great Uncle Sid had died a few years back. He had been a businessman, a financial success, a stable and worthy citizen, who did not get into traffic accidents.

We trailed around their spacious old house, filled with petit point china, and doilies and tea cozies. We admired the garden and the photographs of the family.

Only last week someone told me that Uncle Sid was the one in the family who knit. He and his sister, my grandmother.

That makes 4 generations of men in our family who have had their fingers into some kind of needlework at some point in their life. But I will not mention the others. Great Uncle Sid has been dead for 50 years. He will not mind.