My Uncle Bill. He wasn't a blood uncle; he was my Mom's Aunt Sue's husband. My granfather (the patriarch) found him guilty of drinking and laughing too much when he was playing pinochle; he compounded his offense by winning too often, too. He also wore his hat at much too jaunty an angle.

I have this early mental picture of him sitting on an old wooden chair, under the clothes lines, in the corner of the basement of Aunt Susie's old house on Wabansia Street. It's somebodies birthday, or confirmation, or first holy communion. He's got the collar on his hawaiian shirt open and his tie (!?!) askew, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and his straw hat pushed way back on his mostly-bald head. He is sweating pretty good (it was a hot summer). There is a drinking glass half filled with bourbon (Beam)sitting on the floor just to his right. He's got his guitar on his lap and he's singing an old Eddy Arnold song (Anytime you're feeling lonely) and then some Hank Williams. He's got a fine smile. That guitar exploded one Christmas night in the trunk of his car, where it sat without a case. I never heard him play after that.

I can't prove it, but maybe he's why I like country music and Jim Beam and can't take cards too seriously.