Those Were the Days-Uncle Bob

When I think about my childhood, some of my happiest memories have Uncle Bob right in the middle of them.

Bob is my mother's youngest brother, but he is only ten years older than I am. When we were little and Mom needed to work, Bob helped take care of us. He couldn't have been much more than fourteen himself, yet somehow he managed to be a wonderful babysitter.

And he didn't just watch us.

Bob helped Mom keep the household running. He mowed the lawn, helped keep the house clean, made sure chores got done, and looked after a houseful of kids.

But somehow, with Bob, even responsibility became fun.

If an argument broke out between us kids, Bob didn't yell or lose his temper. Instead, he held court.

A big chair in the living room became the judge's bench, and Uncle Bob became the Honorable Judge Bob. He even had a makeshift gavel. I can't remember exactly what he used for it anymore, although in my memory I picture something like a wooden hammer.

The children involved in the dispute had to appear before the judge and testify about what had happened. Those of us who weren't directly involved became witnesses.

Everyone got to tell their side.

Then Judge Bob handed down his ruling.

Looking back, I realize there was something pretty remarkable about a fourteen-year-old boy coming up with that. At the time, though, we weren't thinking about conflict resolution or fairness.

We were in court!

Everything with Bob seemed to become a game.

Even mowing the lawn.

While he pushed the mower around the yard, we would sneak up behind him and drop ice cubes down the back of his shirt. Somehow, even with a bunch of little kids tormenting him while he was trying to get his work done, I don't remember Bob getting angry.

That's one of the things I remember most about him.

He was always happy. Always smiling. He never seemed to lose his temper with us.

There was one day, though, when I saw a completely different side of Bob.

We were cleaning the house as usual, and part of our job was cleaning up the kitchen and putting away the dishes. My brother Jim climbed a stepladder to put away a large glass serving bowl.

The bowl slipped.

It fell and broke on top of Jim's foot, cutting it badly.

There was blood everywhere.

When Bob walked in and saw what had happened, he turned white.

He panicked.

I don't remember the exact sequence of what happened next after all these years. He had called my Grandmother (his mom), and she took Jim to the hospital, and thankfully, in the end, everything was all right.

But I have never forgotten Bob's face.

It was the only time I can remember seeing my cheerful, unflappable Uncle Bob completely unnerved.

Then we all got a little older.

Eventually Bob got his first car, and another chapter of our adventures began.

Bob always seemed to have a Oldsmobile, and when he came around, he would pile us into the car and take us for rides.

And there was music.

Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass would be playing, and all of us kids would bounce around pretending we were playing trumpets right along with the band.

We thought we were so cool.

There were no phones to stare at and no screens competing for our attention. We had Uncle Bob, a Pontiac, music blasting, imaginary trumpets, and each other.

And we had a blast.

Those moments didn't seem extraordinary then.

They were simply our life.

Years passed, as they always do. The teenage uncle who once babysat me grew up and had a son of his own, Bob Jr., whom we call Bobby.

By then, Bob and his family lived in Tampa while I lived in St. Petersburg. During the summers, when school was out, I would go visit them, and while I was there, I sometimes babysat Bobby.

There was something wonderfully full-circle about that.

Bob had helped take care of me when he was barely more than a child himself, and years later, during those summer visits, I had the chance to help care for his little boy.

Bobby is grown now and lives in Costa Rica, but that family connection has never disappeared. When he comes to Florida, he still makes a point of visiting me.

And Uncle Bob?

He's still Uncle Bob.

He married twice over the years, and I became very close to both of his wives. Through marriages, children, moves, changing lives and passing decades, Bob and I have remained close.

We still talk on the phone regularly.

So when I look back and say, "Those were the days," I don't say it because everything wonderful belongs to the past.

Those days gave me something that lasted.

They gave me memories of courtroom trials in the living room, ice cubes down Bob's shirt, chores turned into games, rides in a Pontiac, and a car full of children enthusiastically playing trumpets that weren't really there.

But most importantly, they gave me Uncle Bob.

More than fifty years later, he's still here.

He's still part of my life.

And I still love him dearly.

Those were the days.

And some of the very best parts of those days never really left us.