My two Irish uncles, my mother’s brothers, have a special place in my heart. Two men, born and raised during the depression who served their country during and after World War II, raised families, worked hard and now, during their retirement find time to spend time with me.

My earliest memories take me back to Philadelphia in the 1960’s. My parents had moved us to Indianapolis but made the road trip back to Philadelphia several times a year. My mother wanted to maintain close ties to her Family and wanted us by extension to understand and enjoy those bonds as well.

It was basically the Brady bunch of Philadelphia, 3 boys and 3 girls along with an entire neighborhood that would move in and out of this massive House or show up for dinner un-announced. This was unheard of to me, but there was always room at the table for an extra plate and always food for one more.

My uncles entered my life — larger than life through my young eyes. Uncle Dick, the younger of the two, had a very old large house on Gowen Avenue, 3 stories high, the kind you might read about in a romance novel. I spent a lot of time on the third floor, sort of a hen’s nest, learning the ways of the world from my cousins.  For instance my cousins taught me how to shave my legs, how to use socks instead of curlers for my hair, how to shop for separates, and much more. What my brother was learning one floor below I dare not ask.

This house was a wonder in size and nooks and cranny’s. It was always filled with people and a lot of food and laughter. And if the front porch was always the designated meeting place, the back stairway was always the source of the best information.

Until my first visit to this house I had no idea homes could have two stairways. The very nature of it amplified any number of conversations going on in the house, especially the kitchen. So at night, after we were supposed to be in bed, we would tiptoe down the hallway and creep carefully, halfway down the stairs and sit together in our pajamas listening to the adults carry on about “family secrets” and suppress giggles about our discoveries!

Uncle Bill, the oldest, has dark features, a tan, irascible but charming at the same time, definitely black Irish. He and his family lived a little further out of the city, almost the suburbs. I spent a lot of time with the youngest cousin, Annie, since we were close in age and in temperament. We would walk down to the local drug store and get penny candy during my visits and stay up late gabbing about everything.

Uncle Dick, the quiet one, has always been a man of few words but deep convictions and a life demonstrating the care and well-being of others. He is always there for someone in need. Deeply devoted to his faith, he became one of the first married deacons of the Catholic church in Philadelphia, ministering to others as he career with the railroad wound down. Trains have been one of his passions and his railroad sets would always come out each Christmas. And we, as kids, found endless fascination with the very intricate layouts he would construct.

So my childhood memories of my Philadelphia trips are filled with love and wonder. Big city, big personalities, opening up a big universe to me.

As I got older, we traveled back less and less. My life and interests didn’t include those ties to extended family and while I wouldn’t say we lost touch, the relationships definitely changed as we all grew up and tried to find our way in this world. But every once and a while one of the unc’s or cousins would pop up unexpectedly.

For instance, Uncle Bill would write to me, faithfully, while I was living in England for a semester during college. He is an excellent writer and I really enjoy our conversations. I don’t always agree with him, but he’s very articulate, forceful, and you always know where you stand with him. I could not believe he would take time out to write to me and I really looked forward to his letters, so far away from home. Filled not only with family news, but observations of his time and travel throughout Europe and advice about experiences I should have. I have kept them to this day.

My cousin Betty Ann, who stayed with us over my long wedding weekend, was front and center during the unfolding disaster and rallied the troops to plug up all the holes in the day that continued to spring forth leaks. (I never tell prospective bride’s about my wedding day. It’s a cautionary tale.) Betty Ann also knitted my firstborn a beautiful baby blanket, that again, I have kept. And the list goes on and on. Despite the distance, family obligations, and just life getting in the way, we have remained in touch.

Fast forward to 2006. My father died after a long bout with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Who arrived at my mother’s door but my two uncles carrying support and Tullamore Dew? Within the year, we would return the favor. Their wives died within 24 hours of each other and they are now living the lives of widowers. They spend more time together as do their families and somehow, have found time lately to spend time with me.

I have made the trip back several times in the last couple of years. I have been drawn to their family stories and I’ve been capturing as much of it as possible. In part, because I’d like to get it into some type of historical context for all of us but I’m also inspired to write and some of that inspiration has found it’s way to my blog, Bashful Bard, in the form of short childrens stories.

They recently visited Indianapolis, driving the distance in two parts. Somehow they managed to stay in one of the few dry towns in Ohio. They were not amused. It’s a serious matter for two crusty Irishmen, footloose and fancy free, not to be able to enjoy a whiskey in a bar.  But they perservered and made their way back to us, where we celebrated their arrival and cooked and shared great conversation.

Uncle Bill had learned that I was interested in fly fishing and surprised me with an old fly rod and reel he had had for a long time. He has always been active and the outdoors is where he would prefer to be, hunting and fishing with his sons. So much to my surprise, we went to the local fly store and he outfitted me with some supplies and gave me a few lessons in the back yard. I was deeply touched.

He asked me, “why fly fishing?” and I told him I thought it would be a great way for me to enjoy the outdoors and I also think it would be, contemplative. I could tell he was taken by surprise by my response. “Contemplative?” he replied slowly. He looked down, rubbed his chin and then acknowledged, “that’s a great way to look at fly fishing. It is indeed time for contemplation.”

He seemed pleased, almost as if he was passing along a gift. A rod & reel? A hobby? A family tradition? I’m just happy for the time spent with them.