Christmas Memories: Uncle Jack

Gird Your Loins Ladies!

I think we all have an “Uncle Jack” somewhere in our past. For some of us, he was sadly our actual, biological uncle, but for others he was an older gentleman who played "handyman" to the single moms in the neighborhood. For my good friend Angie, her “Uncle Jack” was a middle-aged mechanic whose romantic interests drifted toward 14-year-olds.

The obligatory spin across the dance floor with Jack at Christmas

My “Uncle Jack” was an enthusiastic conversationalist with a knack for weaving sexual innuendo into every dinner discussion. Fortunately, expressions like “Mississippi birdbath,” “bob sledding,” and “Canadian porch swing” flew completely over the heads of the kids, but anyone over 18 was discreetly googling these expressions on their iPhones, then excusing themselves to throw up walnut cranberry bread in the powder room.

As holiday evenings progressed and Jack was more emboldened by liquor, he would inevitably suggest we play his favorite “reindeer games” -- basically any board game whereby the loser would have to shed items of clothing. Anyone who regularly attended our family holiday gatherings knew to wear as many layers as possible. And you could count on Jack applying these rules to any game… from Old Maid to Charades.

When the time came to open gifts, guess on whose lap all the ladies were forced to sit? You got it: Jack's. And amongst the many festively wrapped packages were a generous sprinkling of them from Jack. He never forgot anyone, unfortunately. Each year I prayed he would leave me off his list.

The dreaded Victoria's Secret box

Jack could afford to buy anything he liked, and that he did. Gifts for women ranged from lingerie ensembles to diamond tennis bracelets to books on intimate massage paired with musk oil. The men always got a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, when it was the women who could have used a stiff drink.

And once gifts were distributed, it was on to dancing. Jack was wild about tangos and other dances that involved contact between pelvises. When his eyes beckoned you, it was hard to decline, especially when you were wearing his $1500 tennis bracelet.

But the torture of holiday interactions did not end at midnight. Our house was small, with only one bathroom for the four guest rooms. As we all cued up for our turn to brush our teeth, Jack would emerge shirtless in his red thong underwear—a holiday tradition. And there he would stand under the archway to the stairwell—yes, under the mistletoe.