JULY 12, 2023 – We knew him as Santa Claus, and indeed he was. As reliable as the calendar, Uncle Bruce would arrive a week before the Big Day. He always caught a night flight from Newark to the old terminal in Minneapolis, where Mother and Dad would pick him up. His arrival was past our bedtime, so the first we saw of him was the next morning, and what a glorious morning it was. Here at long last was our sole uncle, who was not only closest relative besides our grandparents (we had no aunts or first cousins), but who was always fun and full of jokes and who loved to kid around with us, pretty much as long as we ourselves wanted to be kidded; who brought not one but four rolls of that delicious Taylor’s Ham, which we couldn’t buy in Minnesota; who took us to the soda fountain every day; and who made sure that we had plenty of splendid Christmas gifts under the tree. My sisters and I loved him and truly believed that none of our friends or schoolmates could possibly have an aunt or uncle as wonderful as our Uncle Bruce.
There were the little things that endeared him to us. Like yelling, “Owie, owie, owie!” when we pulled on his little finger[1], and telling me that I was “a good little boy—when I was asleep” and making a big deal about reindeer soup—the “Swedish National Soup.” He liked Broadway show tunes and pocket books and visiting with my parents and Nilsson grandparents, who seemed to be on very familiar terms with him. Unlike Gaga, who viewed our Swedish side as “foreign,” and Grandpa, who was thoroughly ambivalent about our Swedish have, Uncle Bruce was an enthusiast about about “all things Swedish.”
Uncle Bruce looked very normal back then and dressed in normal fashion as well—usually trousers, a white shirt and tie, a sport jacket, if he was going anywhere out in public, and a long, wool overcoat. The toupee came years later. The gross, discolored, ill-fitting one, held on with duct-tape, came years after that.
When my sisters and I were young, Uncle Bruce was simply perfectly normal and perfectly wonderful. The fact that he was a bachelor made him all the more endearing to us: it meant he didn’t have his own kids to pre-empt or co-opt our status or to dilute the limitless largess that he bestowed upon us, at least during the Christmas season, or to distract him from sending us birthday cards or even a full-length letter now and again, each with the closing, “Best wishes, Uncle Bruce” written in big, bold, block letters that were much easier to read than Gaga’s cursive writing.
It was usually a day or two before Christmas when Uncle Bruce would disappear late in the morning and not return until well after supper, often when I, at least, was already in bed. We missed him, but we also knew what he was up to—doing what he knew best, and that was buying my sisters and me Christmas presents. (Cont.)
[1] I remember one year, though, when, in anticipation of his annual visit, Elsa and Nina reminded me of this—“If you pull on his little finger, he’ll go, ‘Owie, owie, owie!’” So, the morning after his arrival I said, “Let me see your little finger,” and he gave me his hand. With days’-long expectation of hearing a really big “Owie, owie, owie,” I then yanked on his little finger as hard as I could. The force must’ve nearly broken his finger, for he yelled out wholly uncharacteristically, “OUCH! Oh my God! Oh my finger!” But he didn’t get mad at me, and I was relieved and impressed by the fact that he did not react in such a fashion, however justified he would’ve been.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
