Colman Peter Author of Father of the Man

Uncle Jim was like a second Dad. In truth, he was more like what a ‘first’ Dad should have been. He and Auntie Joyce never were able to have any children of their own, though they had (some thirty years earlier) adopted a beautiful, brilliant son with blond hair, my cousin Jay. When Dad disappeared in 1956, a few years after our move from Dunbarton to Manchester, Uncle Jim started a regular routine of taking me fishing, boating and skiing, visiting Mammy and Pappy and Uncle Ray and Aunt Phyl in Weare, or just spending an exciting day at Sears, or repairing the white 69’ Ford Galaxy at Johnny’s garage in Pinnardville. It didn’t matter where we went.

When Uncle Jim called, I would wait in my bedroom window in the back corner of our third-floor apartment, watching for the familiar white-curved front fender of Uncle Jim’s car. I was out the door and cascading down the old wooden staircase, nearly jumping the entire flight, before Jim hit the horn.

“Bye, Mum, I’ll be back later!”

A lot later. Uncle Jim always had places to go, and didn’t particularly care how long it took to get there, or how long it was before we decided to leave. We would stop for soft chocolate ice-cream at Dairy-Queen on the way home. I don’t recall ever stopping for lunch or dinner; Uncle Jim didn’t have time to eat. Auntie Joyce would always fix a ‘little’ ten-course snack when we returned at night.






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