Uncle Jim's Wink at Life

Be honest, be brave, be kind, look around—the words were never uttered, but the message always got through

- By John L. Phillips

I WAS 10 YEARS OLD, AND I'D BEEN CAUGHT IN A LIE. I STUBBORNLY DENIED BREAKING A WINDOW IN HAROLD COLBY'S BARN, BUT MY PARENTS KNEW PERFECTLY WELL THAT I HAD DONE IT.

In those days in the little town of Pultneyville, N.Y., a broken window was a big deal, and I was close to miserable.

I suspected, too, that my parents had told Uncle Jim, whom I worshipped. But coming back from a trip to the store, riding beside him on the front seat of his dark-green DeSoto Fire-dome, I glanced over a time or two, fast. I could see a bemused smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Telling the truth is always easier,” he said, straight out of the blue. He took his eyes off the road for a second and grinned at me. “So it’s perfect for a lazybones like you and me.”

I swallowed, watching the mailboxes go by, waiting. But that was it—no scold-ing, no moralizing. My uncle began to hum, and I was awash in relief. Like you and me. My pal was still my pal.

It wasn’t long before I got the chance to test Uncle Jim’s thesis. One day I spotted a pair of brown leather gloves on the windowsill in the post office. Old Mrs Jameson had come in wearing them and had left barehanded, strug-gling with a bulky package. I tried the gloves on. They were perfect.

That night I had a losing bout with my conscience. The truth is easier for a lazybones like you and me. The follow-ing day, I returned the gloves and told Mrs Jameson the truth.

A month later, a small package arrived for me. Inside were the gloves and a note: “I needed another pair, and thought you might like these. Mrs J.”

When my uncle asked where I got the snazzy gloves, I told him the story. “See?” he said, delighted.

Yes, I did see. I still do.