My uncle’s name was J. No, it wasn’t Jay. It was J.
This was a guy who was born in 1911 so it wasn’t like his parents were into some symbol for the person formerly known as Prince thing. Why would anyone name their son a single letter? I would have asked them, my grandparents, if I had ever talked to them but I never did. Oh, they were alive until I was about fifteen and we did visit but we didn’t actually converse. Ask me about my grandfather’s worm bin though. It was massive. He would turn the dirt over with a pitchfork and there would be hundreds of big fat angleworms, the ones that had knuckles they were so big. Ponder on that for a minute.
Anyway, I thought about Uncle J because he was a person not in need of a nickname. There is no diminutive for…
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