Uncle Bill - the G M P I

The visits to my Dad’s family in Ohio, when I was but a child, were often fraught with
a Chekhovian urgency and quietude. Though I was between six and thirteen during these
yearly visits, everyone seemed ancient of years to me. My “Granny B” wore black and
or navy blue - even in summer - and had played the suffering role of widow since my
Dad was eight years old. Her shoes were like castoffs of retired nun’s shoes.

Who was this Uncle Bill of the title? He was in reincarnation of Ichabod Crane and the
adoring husband of my Dad’s older sister, Rachel. A person of rather small architecture,
with an oversized head, coke bottle glasses which made his eyes seem enormous, wearing a
boys size shirt of sixteen, and with a waist of about twenty four inches, he was not
what one might call a person of commanding presence. He was decidedly an in-law who
did not resemble our core “blood line.”

The annual visit always included one luncheon at Rae and Bill’s home, a mere two and a
half miles from my Granny’s dusty bungalow. The food was hardly what we today would
call kid friendly, if you know what I mean! However, my Uncle’s favorite comfort food was
mashed potatoes. Aunt Rae was not a culinary star by any means and tended to serve rather
bland food and not too much of it. Thrifty she was. Mashed potatoes were made with water
rather that milk, margarine instead of butter, and salt and pepper were left to be
added at table. I don’t recall what was served with these potatoes, but it must have
been far from appetizing and of a specialty that defied remembrance.

This dining opportunity around a small junior dinette suite in an equally small room
was again fraught with that Chekhovian tension. We sensed that the inevitable was about
to occur. Mother had warned us to be on our best behavior, not to laugh, and especially
not to look at her.

My Aunt dabbled in painting, both watercolor and oil. My Uncle permitted her work to
hang anywhere but the living room. He had collected other pieces for display there,
purchased on his annual vacation to Stratford, Ontario. So in this little dining room
hung one of my Mother’s favorite paintings by my Aunt. It was a seascape with calming,
gentle waves breaking on a sandy shore line at sun set. Mother always sat at table
facing that painting and would lose herself in those calm, comforting
waves lapping the shore. There was, of course, another reason for this distraction.

So…….we gathered at our respective places in anticipation of this year’s luncheon repast. Piping hot food made it to the table and as always the mashed potatoes took their usual spot to be served by the man of the house. After everyone was served their rightful portion, we would quietly wait
for the event that so amused us to occur, remembering that our best behavior was expected by our Mother who was already losing herself among
the waves. So our eyes would carefully dart to and from Uncle Bill
sitting at the head of the table. We privately monitored his every move like the best of spies and were totally angelic as we dabbled and ate
our food. My brother and I were well practiced in this endeavor and
we had been officially cautioned not to be an embarrassment
to our parents.

We didn’t have to wait long before our Uncle would pick up his fork and
eye the potatoes so beautifully placed on his plate. His fork surgically entered the potato pile and extracted just the perfect portion of this runny, semi-liquid delicacy. Slowly his fork would rise toward his
pursed lips which resembled Joan Sutherland as she sang one of her perfectly shaped notes, stopping about two inches away. We heard the
slow, deliberative intake of breath and ever so slowly the mashed
potatoes would lift off the fork and flow toward his mouth, seemingly
to remain suspended in time and space before invading the deep recesses
of his gaping maw. Incredible breath control was evinced, both on my
Uncle’s part and on us as we surreptitiously observed.

We dared not exchange glances with each other as we held our breath so
as to not break out into peals of laughter. Mother continued lost in
the painting, Dad was his usual quiet and removed self, his sister
Rae didn’t know that anything was up and my Granny continued to
observe her grandchildren’s demeanor as proper and dutiful. The
inhalations continued until the last speck of toes was consumed in the manner described.

And so it was, another piece of our annual summer visit completed. We
had exercised the expected self control. The long ride home was always punctuated by uncontrollable gales of laughter as we recalled and
breathed in our own imagined mashed potatoes. And of course we all
pledged allegiance to our dear Uncle Bill, the GMPI. For that was what
he began to be called - the GMPI or the great mashed potato inhaler.

　

　

R