"Uncle" George was always a joy to have at our house in Brooklyn, NY. He had married one of my Dad's many sisters and often came to our house on major holidays.

Uncle George had gray hair, a ready smile, mostly a grin, and a chuckle sprinkled among his conversations and a joke choked in his throat that seemed to include his wife, Aunt Catharine, as co-conspirator and perhaps, the butt of them. He always referred to his wife by a special endearing name, "Dilcey," something sweet as I remember but meaningless to the uninformed. They had lost their only infant son ages ago and I think Aunt Catharine looked upon me as the son she lost. I was too young to understand much of the reparté around the dining room table during the Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations but Uncle George helped me solve a big problem I had with my Lionel Trains.

He worked for the Long Island Railroad as a supervising tower switchman, I think, and subsequently retired from, "Working on the Railroad." Many conversations at the dinner table revolved around his experiences on the job, with his usual grin, accompanying I assume, searing commentary.

One of my Lionel train locomotives had died. The transformer wouldn't move it and I didn't know what to do. My dad was not knowledgeable about such things but Uncle George knew everything about trains.

I watched in horror as he dismembered the locomotive with small tools, removing the very guts of the thing. He used sandpaper, sandpaper for heavens sake, and rubbed it over a circular thingy in the middle of the motor. And then, he rubbed sandpaper on two tiny tubular things that were so small they were hard to hold in his hand. I was silent, nervous but not in shock, because I knew Uncle George knew everything about railroading.

But I was shocked, and jubilant after the locomotive was reassembled, placed back on the track then shot off the table when I twisted the transformer switch back on.

"Thanks, Uncle George."