It is taboo in American culture for a parent to admit they have a favorite child, or for a grandparent to single out one of their grandchildren, or for an aunt or uncle to dote on a certain niece or nephew, even if may be quite evident to others.  But oddly, the flip-side does not seem to be taboo: ask anyone on the spot to name their favorite uncle or aunt, grandparent, possibly even parent or sibling, and they may answer without hesitation.  (Probably more freely expressed after those concerned have passed.)

I had eight uncles with unique personalities and distinctive nicknames: Art, Bing, Boots, Chill, Irk, Jim, Red and Paul.  My eight uncles were enough to populate two pewfuls of ushers and deacons, one pew which tippled a bit, the other which vilified those who did.  As the title of this post suggests, Art was my favorite uncle — not because he tippled but because he was way too nice to take a seat in the finger-pointing pew.

My Uncle Art (and my Aunt Pearl, more on her in another post) was the most affable and generous person I knew growing up.  I always had fun when we went to Uncle Art’s house for Thanksgiving or Christmas, even though there was nothing particularly entertaining for kids to do there — Uncle Art’s smile and hospitality were that infectious.

Uncle Art had a bar in his finished basement which, in best Western PA tradition, served as the gathering place for his relatives and friends.  It was fun to sit in the tall, swiveling bar chairs where Uncle Art would serve me a Squirt (grapefruit soda, for the unfamiliar) and then offer the grown-ups a gin-and-Squirt or a beer.

I never understood why adults ruined Squirt — which in the 1950s-60s had real grapefruit pulp — by putting booze in it.  To this day, the Squirt of my youth is my favorite soft drink, but that version no longer exists:  Jarritos grapefruit soda, which has way more bite but not a speck of pulp, is the closest approximation I’ve found.  Excuse the tangent, but my testimony on grapefruit sodas was important to get on the record.

When I was in grade school, Mom would often take me along to shop downtown where we would invariably visit Uncle Art (her brother) at his florist shop overlooking the mighty Neshannock Creek.  Art would acknowledge me and chat with my mom but kept working, snipping stems, stripping thorns off roses, plunging chrysanthemums into funeral vases, and all the while chuckling and smiling.  I would usually walk out of the store with a flower in my hand or one tucked into my shirt.

What a treat it would be to visit Uncle Art at his workbench one more time and watch him put together an arrangement.  Art had somewhat pudgy hands, and unless you noticed his blackened thorn-scratched fingers, you would never figure him to be a floral designer.

• • • 

Uncle Art’s sense of design was, shall we say, not subtle.  His holiday arrangements made generous use of glitter spray, and he always figured out some way to incorporate gold.  His own Christmas tree was an artificial snow-white colossus with gold satin balls as I recall.  He wrapped his outdoor lamppost with a red ribbon and accented it with pine boughs, just like those you see on Christmas cards.  And that was only the start.

I think Uncle Art’s gift for finding the most pleasure in everything carried over into his design sense, and so there could be no such thing as over-decorating.  He was fortunate that he lived in a predominantly Italian-American town that shared this aesthetic.

That said, Uncle Art did design a beautiful and elegant flower crown for my wife to wear on our wedding day fifty years ago.*  Not a speck of gold or glitter in it that I recall.  So he knew the right time to rein it in.

• • • 

Holiday parties at Uncle Art’s and Aunt Alice’s house usually concluded with a round of penny-ante Michigan Rummy if there were six or more players, or a few hands of pinochle otherwise.  (Either was best accompanied by a beer or a schnapps.)  A Michigan Rummy session lasted until each player had a turn to be dealer; whereas pinochle games ended with Uncle Art getting frustrated, uttering his trademark string of expletives that started with turdy furdy and ended with shitty cat, and tossing his cards across the room.

Legend has it that when Art and Alice remodeled their kitchen, they found a deck’s-worth of playing cards underneath and behind the refrigerator.  This story may be apocryphal, but I can bear witness to the flying objects.

Art passed away in his sleep three decades ago, shortly after his 76th birthday.  I miss his humor, generosity, human kindness, and the many Christmases that he filled with fun.

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* Uncle Art played a contributing role in getting my wife and me together for our first date.  In high school and college, I often worked as a holiday delivery person/driver for Uncle Art’s flower shop — and so it was on a late December afternoon that I had finished work and was waiting to catch the bus to go home, when Sue happened to walk by.  She spotted me, said hello and offered me a ride home, and the rest, as they say, is our story.  Best Christmas memory ever.