DECEMBER 24, 2019 – 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 flew on 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 glorious mornings they were.
He was our sole uncle, who was not only our closest relative besides our grandparents, 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, 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, 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 show tunes and pocket books and visiting with my parents and Nilsson grandparents, who seemed to be on very familiar terms with him.
A couple of days before Christmas Uncle Bruce disappeared late in the morning and didn’t 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. I remember his Christmas when I was five. I’d begged Mother to allow me to stay up until Uncle Bruce returned, but he was unusually late, and Mother finally insisted that I go to bed, promising that when Uncle Bruce came home, she would send him up to my room to say good-night.
I lay awake, wondering where Uncle Bruce could be, and expecting him at any moment, I trained my eyes on the sliver of hallway light, which Mother had allowed into my room by leaving the door slightly ajar. After an eternity, I heard adult voices downstairs, then footsteps ascending the stairs—not Dad’s, not Mothers, but Uncle Bruce’s! I sat up in my bed, just as the sliver of hallway light widened into a burst of glory, revealing Uncle Bruce’s silhouette.
(Cont.)
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
