Uncle J
Ken Wuetcher

“Hey Philpot, let it all hang out!”
Uncle J stood in his leather penny loafers,
no socks and Bermuda shorts.
Shirtless with hirsute chest.
His large round belly
shook with laughter.
Phil Brock responded in turn,
“Let it all hang out J S!”
Phil was tall and wafer-thin,
without fail holding a
bottle of Fall City beer.
All day long they would
yell back and forth at each other.
Sometimes Uncle J fired his
shotgun in the air.
Uncle J liked his draft beer:
no bottles or cans.
Rigged a refrigerator
for a keg and put a
tap on the front.
He hated wine.
In Europe during WWII
his unit found a wine cellar.
He got drunk and puking sick,
fell into a deep sleep.
Hung over for days,
perhaps a week or longer.
To the end of his life
the sight of wine
made him want
to hurl.
An entertainer at heart,
Uncle J made everyone laugh.
When I was young, he called me
George,
after Curious George
my favorite character from books.
I always looked forward
to seeing him.
His suicide was
heartrending.