Tonight, at my friend Boo's house, I noticed a Sewanee yearbook for 1931. So beautifully bound was the book that I picked it up and leafed through every page, without really expecting to notice anyone.
Suddenly, there on the first page of the freshman class was James R. Anderson, my uncle, of Birmingham, Alabama. I have known, for most of my life, that Uncle Jim went to Sewanee, but somehow I had forgotten. I was startled to see his 18-year-old face staring out at me.
Suddenly, I remembered all those Christmases at Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jim's house. By 10:30, guests began stopping in on their way elsewhere and enjoyed deliciously spicy homemade cheese straws (my Aunt Bertha could really cook) and Uncle Jim's equally revered milk punch. Children got a virgin version if they wanted it, but grownups delighted in the milk and bourbon drink, the alcohol providing a warm underbelly to the cold silver of the monogrammed julep cup. Uncle Jim poured from a silver pitcher and sprinkled the top of each cup with nutmeg from a silver shaker. Finally, he placed a white linen cocktail napkin underneath the cup and handed the drink like a special Christmas gift to each guest. "Happy Christmas," he wished us, each and all.
I miss those milk punches and the gentleness of my uncle Jim.
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