Al Allen's lamp, from Kate Wheeler

Whenever I think of any Allen, I think of many Allens. If mentioning Jeff, Larry, Lisa, Marcie or Richie in a tale, I call them Aunts and Uncles, partly because it's quicker, but also because it better befits their importance. The taxonomy of my many brilliant cousins confounds me too, but at least 'cousin' is a title that can be applied. Al, though of the grand-generation, was also entitled Uncle. Uncle Al. I confess I don't know what the 'C' in his name stood for, but I think 'Caesar' would be befitting -- I can easily imagine his head in laurels, and I think we should all consider the comfort and freedom of togas for some upcoming holiday event. I bring up the naming only because when thinking of the title 'great uncle' I laughed because I thought it so appropriate for him: an uncle, only more storied and expansive.

But imagining Al, I can't help but see his children and grandchildren, in whose company he positively beamed. And I can't help but see his big sister Erma beside him, they with their twin broad foreheads and twin broad smiles. Though they lately explored Alaska and central America, I'll forever see them on that long lawn: Erma in the kitchen, stirring, lecturing, laughing; the screen door constantly clacking open and closed; Al -- just as Cally described! -- holding court on the lawn, later even with a cane grasped lightly as a sceptre. Though Al and Erma both dearly loved to hold forth, they were also able to hold back and listen. Since the très sportif gene seemed to skip me, I liked to listen too, and I liked watching him bask in the enjoyment of his constellation of children and their children. Erma and Al venerated history, but showed no less reverence for personal history, and so (out of genuine concern and unabashed nosiness) they pressed for every mundane detail. Grand ideas could be distilled to simple parts, and built back again.

One night in the living room, we watched a tape of Al being interviewed. He was bravely repudiating his earlier support for the Current Occupant. He was a kettle boiling over with points to make, and was not ashamed to say that he'd changed his mind, and that Bush was a disaster. That was an amazing attribute that he and Erma shared -- they could be so opinionated, so stubborn, and then they could, upon reflection, and with the most maddening lack of fanfare, change their minds. They were self-important but silly, loners and centers, dreamers with practicality. The contradictions are what made them endlessly interesting. Sitting on the long lawn, you heard discussions of politics and art, cooking and intellectual pursuits sprinkled liberally with sports. And so we found ourselves there in Erma's living room, with the ancient warped floor, the beloved old cat safe behind her feet, the tables cluttered with books and mail and articles, and Al on the television excoriating Bush.

That night we listened to the whole interview, applauding at appropriate times, and when the tape ended, Erma sat back in her chair, broad brow raised, broad smile blazing. "I am so proud of my little brother!" said she; and we all agreed.