Before he visited our home, mother insisted her offspring address Dad's younger brother as "Uncle Doctor George." My older brothers, James and Bill, acquiesced without uttering a word.
"Why?" I moaned, thinking the appellation not only odd but excessive.
"Because he went to school for years and worked very hard in order to become a doctor. Just like your father," she snapped back.
That's why I addressed Dad that evening at mealtime as, "Doctor Dad."
"What did you just say?" he asked, grinning.
"Doctor Dad," I repeated.
He laughed out loud, obviously enjoying the repartee. "Why'd you call me that?
"Because mother says I have to call Uncle George, Uncle Doctor George. It's because he worked hard to become a doctor. So, you worked hard, too, because you're a doctor, right?"
"Right."
Dad obviously got a kick out of my prankish logic. Mother, however, gave me that prolonged glare, kin to a swarm of bees attacking me for my besmirching their hive with a long stick. I preferred being boiled in oil compared to the punishment I thought she had in mind. But not to worry. She advised me the next morning, "You shall call him Uncle Doctor George." Even then, I understood the difference between will and shall.
So that's what I did when he visited our home shortly after World War II ended. Uncle Doctor George was still in the U.S. Navy, an officer, naturally, because he was a doctor. It was the first time I recall meeting him.
Wearing a khaki uniform, George arrived on one of Wisconsin's hot and humid summer days. Even back then, we had weather that nowadays some folks used to call global warming that has morphed into climate change.
Anyway, Dad introduced his brother to me by saying, "George, this is George." Perspiration stains on my uncle's uniform shirt were more than noticeable. Wearing wire rimmed glasses, he removed his officer's hat and displayed a receding hair line, beads of sweat on his high forehead.
He took off his shirt in my bedroom in order to change into a dry, clean civilian shirt. I noticed he wore a white singlet underneath. He changed into a fresh singlet while I stood there, unwilling to move. Reaching into his suitcase, he pulled out a small leather toiletry bag, unzipped the bag, grabbed something, lifted an arm, and rubbed that something on to his armpit. Next, he did the same thing to the other armpit.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm applying deodorant," he replied, smiling.
"What does that do?"
"Makes me smell nice."
Soft spoken, fastidious in his demeanor, Uncle George chose his words cautiously. He hesitated momentarily when answering any of my questions, perhaps because he wished to reply with absolute precision. Even his laughter was soft and controlled, a chuckle rather than a laugh.
Dad came into the room. "Did you know your Uncle George is a member of Phi Beta Kappa?" he asked.
'Aw, c'mon Jim," objected my uncle.
"What's that?" I inquired.
Dad continued. "It's an honorary society that recognizes only those students with the highest academic achievement."
"Oh," I said, still not understanding why dad was so proud.
The next time Uncle George visited us in June of 1951, his wife, Marie, and children Mary Lee, Michael, and George, Jr., "Buddy," accompanied him. The reason for the family's brief stay was to attend my father's funeral, after which Aunt Marie, who complemented her husband's stiffness with her bubbly, spontaneous, outgoing personality, invited me to visit her family the next summer in Racine.
In December, she'd probably forgotten she had made that solicitation but I had not. That month and the following few, I wrote to her, letting her know how I was looking forward to my Racine visit.
Aunt Marie wrote back, stating she and her family would be delighted to have me as a guest. Her outgoing and pleasant personality didn't allow her to renege any promise she'd made.
Thus, I visited their family for close to two weeks in the summer of 1952. I felt that Uncle George was somewhat taken aback by his older brother's third son. Still reserved in all aspects of his life, he let his wife handle my many questions. She was the one who made plans for what I'd do each day. Michael, Buddy, and I walked to the Racine public swimming pool just about every weekday afternoon. Also, taking the bus, we three visited their dad's office in downtown Racine, which reminded me of my Dad's former office.
On my very first evening there in the boy's bedroom, Buddy announced, "It's time."
"For what?" I said.
"You'll see," said Michael. ”Follow us."
We entered George and Marie's bedroom. Mary Lee was already there, kneeling on the carpeted floor. Kneeling also were my aunt and uncle, obviously dutiful when it came to their Catholic faith. Uncle George was a Fourth Degree Knight of Columbus, the highest office of the Catholic men's secret organization, often compared to the Protestant Masons.
Michael and Buddy knelt. Hesitant and even embarrassed, I followed suit. Aunt Marie made the sign of the cross. The rest of us followed. Marie led in praying the entire rosary. After we finished, I was ready to stand but Aunt Marie continued, "Let us pray for the repose of Uncle Jim's soul." I believe it took me a full two minutes to figure out exactly for whom we were praying. Uncle Jim was my deceased father.
Dad was not a religious man at all, a Catholic in name only. He would not allow his children to attend Catholic school full time. The only occasions that urged him to enter SS. Peter & Paul Catholic church were on those specific Sundays each of his children received her or his first communion with other students who attended part time religious classes on Saturdays and a few weeks each summer.
On a Saturday, we visited a public park with a plethora of dark green wooden park benches and picnic tables. Uncle George, aided by Aunt Marie, started a wood fire in one of the steel grilles. Uncle George made a brief announcement: "I will award the person who eats the most hot dogs a fifty cent piece."
With my bottomless pit, I won. Uncle George handed me the half-dollar as he chuckled. A gentleman, he remained reserved in all his human transactions.
I confided one afternoon to Aunt Marie when we were alone that my parents argued loudly many nights. We were in the dining room she had just finished cleaning. Her home was absolutely immaculate due to her daily cleaning activities. She then confided in me that Uncle George, whenever he became angry with her, would give her the silent treatment. "I hate the silence," she said with much force. "I'd prefer we argue like your mother and dad and get it over with."
However, as a thirteen year old, I disagreed with her. Silently, of course. She was too nice of a person to disagree with. Unlike her, I thought it wise of Uncle George to act with silence. He wouldn't yell as my father used to scream and scare the hell out of us kids when he and mother argued. Later in life, I found myself fully agreeing with Aunt Marie's take.
However, on that day, I appreciated my uncle even more although I don't think he appreciated me as much, in return. He never sought to be the center of attention, preferring to be a passenger on the bus, not its driver. For that reason, alone, I highly valued Uncle Doctor George.
"Why?" I moaned, thinking the appellation not only odd but excessive.
"Because he went to school for years and worked very hard in order to become a doctor. Just like your father," she snapped back.
That's why I addressed Dad that evening at mealtime as, "Doctor Dad."
"What did you just say?" he asked, grinning.
"Doctor Dad," I repeated.
He laughed out loud, obviously enjoying the repartee. "Why'd you call me that?
"Because mother says I have to call Uncle George, Uncle Doctor George. It's because he worked hard to become a doctor. So, you worked hard, too, because you're a doctor, right?"
"Right."
Dad obviously got a kick out of my prankish logic. Mother, however, gave me that prolonged glare, kin to a swarm of bees attacking me for my besmirching their hive with a long stick. I preferred being boiled in oil compared to the punishment I thought she had in mind. But not to worry. She advised me the next morning, "You shall call him Uncle Doctor George." Even then, I understood the difference between will and shall.
So that's what I did when he visited our home shortly after World War II ended. Uncle Doctor George was still in the U.S. Navy, an officer, naturally, because he was a doctor. It was the first time I recall meeting him.
Wearing a khaki uniform, George arrived on one of Wisconsin's hot and humid summer days. Even back then, we had weather that nowadays some folks used to call global warming that has morphed into climate change.
Anyway, Dad introduced his brother to me by saying, "George, this is George." Perspiration stains on my uncle's uniform shirt were more than noticeable. Wearing wire rimmed glasses, he removed his officer's hat and displayed a receding hair line, beads of sweat on his high forehead.
He took off his shirt in my bedroom in order to change into a dry, clean civilian shirt. I noticed he wore a white singlet underneath. He changed into a fresh singlet while I stood there, unwilling to move. Reaching into his suitcase, he pulled out a small leather toiletry bag, unzipped the bag, grabbed something, lifted an arm, and rubbed that something on to his armpit. Next, he did the same thing to the other armpit.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm applying deodorant," he replied, smiling.
"What does that do?"
"Makes me smell nice."
Soft spoken, fastidious in his demeanor, Uncle George chose his words cautiously. He hesitated momentarily when answering any of my questions, perhaps because he wished to reply with absolute precision. Even his laughter was soft and controlled, a chuckle rather than a laugh.
Dad came into the room. "Did you know your Uncle George is a member of Phi Beta Kappa?" he asked.
'Aw, c'mon Jim," objected my uncle.
"What's that?" I inquired.
Dad continued. "It's an honorary society that recognizes only those students with the highest academic achievement."
"Oh," I said, still not understanding why dad was so proud.
The next time Uncle George visited us in June of 1951, his wife, Marie, and children Mary Lee, Michael, and George, Jr., "Buddy," accompanied him. The reason for the family's brief stay was to attend my father's funeral, after which Aunt Marie, who complemented her husband's stiffness with her bubbly, spontaneous, outgoing personality, invited me to visit her family the next summer in Racine.
In December, she'd probably forgotten she had made that solicitation but I had not. That month and the following few, I wrote to her, letting her know how I was looking forward to my Racine visit.
Aunt Marie wrote back, stating she and her family would be delighted to have me as a guest. Her outgoing and pleasant personality didn't allow her to renege any promise she'd made.
Thus, I visited their family for close to two weeks in the summer of 1952. I felt that Uncle George was somewhat taken aback by his older brother's third son. Still reserved in all aspects of his life, he let his wife handle my many questions. She was the one who made plans for what I'd do each day. Michael, Buddy, and I walked to the Racine public swimming pool just about every weekday afternoon. Also, taking the bus, we three visited their dad's office in downtown Racine, which reminded me of my Dad's former office.
On my very first evening there in the boy's bedroom, Buddy announced, "It's time."
"For what?" I said.
"You'll see," said Michael. ”Follow us."
We entered George and Marie's bedroom. Mary Lee was already there, kneeling on the carpeted floor. Kneeling also were my aunt and uncle, obviously dutiful when it came to their Catholic faith. Uncle George was a Fourth Degree Knight of Columbus, the highest office of the Catholic men's secret organization, often compared to the Protestant Masons.
Michael and Buddy knelt. Hesitant and even embarrassed, I followed suit. Aunt Marie made the sign of the cross. The rest of us followed. Marie led in praying the entire rosary. After we finished, I was ready to stand but Aunt Marie continued, "Let us pray for the repose of Uncle Jim's soul." I believe it took me a full two minutes to figure out exactly for whom we were praying. Uncle Jim was my deceased father.
Dad was not a religious man at all, a Catholic in name only. He would not allow his children to attend Catholic school full time. The only occasions that urged him to enter SS. Peter & Paul Catholic church were on those specific Sundays each of his children received her or his first communion with other students who attended part time religious classes on Saturdays and a few weeks each summer.
On a Saturday, we visited a public park with a plethora of dark green wooden park benches and picnic tables. Uncle George, aided by Aunt Marie, started a wood fire in one of the steel grilles. Uncle George made a brief announcement: "I will award the person who eats the most hot dogs a fifty cent piece."
With my bottomless pit, I won. Uncle George handed me the half-dollar as he chuckled. A gentleman, he remained reserved in all his human transactions.
I confided one afternoon to Aunt Marie when we were alone that my parents argued loudly many nights. We were in the dining room she had just finished cleaning. Her home was absolutely immaculate due to her daily cleaning activities. She then confided in me that Uncle George, whenever he became angry with her, would give her the silent treatment. "I hate the silence," she said with much force. "I'd prefer we argue like your mother and dad and get it over with."
However, as a thirteen year old, I disagreed with her. Silently, of course. She was too nice of a person to disagree with. Unlike her, I thought it wise of Uncle George to act with silence. He wouldn't yell as my father used to scream and scare the hell out of us kids when he and mother argued. Later in life, I found myself fully agreeing with Aunt Marie's take.
However, on that day, I appreciated my uncle even more although I don't think he appreciated me as much, in return. He never sought to be the center of attention, preferring to be a passenger on the bus, not its driver. For that reason, alone, I highly valued Uncle Doctor George.
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