Through a Glass Darkly for April 17, 2008

• By BOB ANDERSON
• Advocate Florida parishes bureau
• Published: Apr 17, 2008 - Page: 1E - UPDATED: 12:05 a.m.

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Every kid needs a friend like Uncle Bert.

I called him uncle, but we shared no blood, just spirit.

He was my father’s fishing companion, co-worker and best friend. He became my friend too.

When I was 4 or 5 my dad and Uncle Bert started including me on their fishing trips, which meant that they had to take turns putting down their fly rods to re-bait the hook on my cane pole. As I sat between them on the boat’s middle seat, sometimes I could no longer contain myself and would try to cast my worm the way they whipped their flies toward the shallows.

The tangled lines I caused would bring a stern admonition from my father. Uncle Bert would try to hide a smile.

Uncle Bert had the ability to appreciate the humor in things that most people miss or even get aggravated about.

He had the best laugh I have ever heard. More accurately, he had the best laugh I’ve ever seen. When he laughed, he laughed with his whole body. His eyes squinted, his torso rocked and he slapped his knee until he finally regained control. When he laughed, everybody in the room laughed.

Uncle Bert loved Westerns — both books and movies — and we would occasionally meet him at the drive-in to catch the latest Randolph Scott film. We’d pull up next to his ’55 Buick, which would already have the speaker hooked to the driver’s window. I’d hop in his passenger door already digging into my popcorn. Mom and Dad probably enjoyed that hour and a half of relative privacy.

On the rare occasions when my parents went out at night, Uncle Bert would come over to baby-sit. He’d usually read me a couple of tales from an outdoor magazine. Soon afterward, he would fall asleep. I didn’t tell.

Uncle Bert was present for most of the big events in my life, such as when I was 6 and got my first BB gun. My dad and I went straight to the shop where Uncle Bert worked to show off my symbol of passage. OSHA hadn’t come along yet, so we shot at a target that they stuck on a piece of wood against the shop’s back wall. I had a hard time getting a turn.

Uncle Bert was also present when I got my first real rifle through a bizarre twist of fate when I was 10.

He and I were fishing. I accidentally knocked my rod and reel overboard with a paddle.

Uncle Bert didn’t fuss. He knew I hadn’t done it on purpose and that fussing would only make me feel worse. He went over the side into the chest-deep water.