Only the First Beer Matters

     Eighty-nine years ago, January 3^rd, 1929, my Uncle Jim was born at home in Buffalo, New York. My Grandmother told me that she had been to see the doctor the day before, and the doc said the baby would be another week or so. That night there was a huge snowstorm as my Grandmother went into labor. I don't know whose journey was more difficult, the baby getting born, or the doctor trudging through the snow – either way, my Uncle Jim arrived before the doctor did.

        There are many stories I could tell about my Uncle Jim. There were the adventures during the years the family lived in Newark, New Jersey during the Depression – Jim would run loose in the neighborhoods. Often he would listen to outdoor parties going on, climb over the fence, and hang out with everyone as if he were an invited, albeit eager to get at the food, guest!

        One time Mom caught Jim and John, another brother two years older than Jim, in the garage smoking a cigarette! They were still young boys at the time and Mom was even younger. She hollered that she was going to tell on them! So Jim stuck the cigarette in Mom's mouth and then laughed at her and said if she told on them they would tell on her!

        As a teenager, living back in Buffalo once again, Jim got a job with a house-moving company! How my grandmother allowed this, my Mom always wondered – but it was how things were at the time. Jim, as a young, lean teen, was a good size for crawling under the house that was being moved – to hook up equipment – oh my gosh!

        When Jim and John were in their late teens, they would sneak out of the house at night after my grandparents had gone to bed. The boys would quietly open the garage door and then back their Dad's car out of the driveway. They backed the car out without turning on the motor – because that would make noise! Once on the street and a safe distance away, John and Jim would turn the motor on and drive around all night! When they got back home, they would turn the odometer back to where it was when they got started that evening; they would turn off the motor, and push the car back into the garage, quietly close the door and return to the house. It sounds too far-fetched to think their parents never knew about this, but the siblings maintained that there would have been hell to pay if either their father or mother had caught them at it!

        Years later, when my Uncle Jim was married and had children of his own, his daughter was learning to drive, and one evening she asked if he would go with her as she drove to the store. Uncle Jim said sure, and then he went through an elaborate production of getting into the car with as much protection on as possible. This included buckling himself into the middle of the backseat and wearing his son's football helmet!

        Two summers ago, when my brothers and I and our significant others were in Vermont vacationing together, Clark and Eric recalled a quote of Uncle Jim's that I just had to write down, lest I forget, and now I put it here for posterity. When trying to choose which beer to drink from all the choices that might be in the cooler and/or refrigerator, Uncle Jim would say, “It's only the first beer that matters.”

        My Uncle Jim's life was and legacy is so much more than what I could possibly say here in just a few words, but today I will drink a beer in his honor and pen these anecdotes in A Sharper Stick in the Eye!

003 20180103 Only the first Beer Matters