Uncle Bob and His Exploding Weenie

The Old Man has a special corner in the memory banks for Independence Day. It's one of the best holidays ever, I believe. There's no "gift pressure", no secular compartmentalization, and no social expectations other than to have a rollicking good time. The menu is simple; fireworks, hot dogs, and family closeness, all washed down with a hearty swig of patriotism.

Hot dogs make me think of Uncle Bob. Why? I'll get to that in a moment. He wasn't really my uncle.....more like my brother. Bob declared himself "Uncle" to our two daughters. He just started to refer to himself as Uncle Bob when ever he was around them.

Bob loved nothing better than to be around those he loved. You've heard me refer to him in several earlier posts. He and I when let off the chain could usually have all within earshot clutching their sides in a matter of minutes. We fed off of each other like fire off of oxygen. Now I must confess, various liquids were often involved, but in reality, we needed no fuel.
When we were together at the beach, Bob and I would sit out on the balcony smoking and commiserating on the state of matters in the world. Sometime around midnight, our wives would hear one or the other of us say, "I love you, man".....a takeoff on a popular beer commercial of its time. That was the signal; they would wave us in.

Bob loved the 4th of July. We'd usually get together out at his place and spend the afternoon goofing around and playing croquet or sometimes badminton. Hot dogs always were the standard fare, accompanied by many varieties of refreshment. Bob would always say, "Are you bringing the fireworks?". I'd just grin and then show up with an arsenal of bottle rockets, lady fingers, and maybe even a T-bomb or two.

We had another friend named Jim who was a couple of branches even further up the crazy tree. Around suppertime, when croquet had gotten hot and heavy with side bets and catcalls, our childish desire for "booms and bangs" would get the best of us, and we'd break out the fireworks.
Inhibitions and common sense became subjugated, and we rose to the challenge to see how creatively we could wreck havoc. I recall one year, we began to wonder if we could stand on Bob's deck and fire a bottle rocket through a croquet wicket. When it was my turn, I took careful aim, and lit the fuse.
At about the same time I flicked the Bic, Bob was bent over, lining up a shot through that same wicket. With a tremendous "whoosh" and a trail of smoke, the rocket shot between Bob's legs, went through the wicket, and then exploded. Bob, who was basically deaf, never turned around. He simply extended his arm behind his back and flashed the "Hawaiian Good Luck" sign.

Later that same evening, Bob, Jim, and I began wondering aloud what we could blow up. We'd already used up most of the cans. Bob said, "Hang on", and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a couple of wieners. He took one of them and carefully catheterized it with a Lady Finger. "Stand back". "WHAM". Grown men look really goofy with bits of Ball Park in their hair, stuck to their legs, and laughing so hard we could water the lawn.

It was like that with 'Uncle' Bob. We had that something that connects one human to another and the offshoot is a uniqueness that's one of the most rewarding things in life. So I think of Uncle every year on Independence Day. I think of all the exploding 'weenies', the nights on the balconies, and the wacky lunches we had.

Bob left us way too early. But sometimes over the noise of the sky rockets and the aerial bombs, I think I hear, "I love you, man".