Finding Nick

A tribute to the past

Author Photo

Walking through the cemetery looking for his headstone, my mind was cluttered with memories of my uncle, Nick. Lost, I savored the scent of the freshly mown grass as I passed the same names for the third time, remembering the definition of crazy. I could hear Nick’s voice in my head saying, “Where are you going, Knothead? I’m right here.” He always called me “Knothead” or “Knotty” after Woody Woodpecker’s nephew, whom we read about in comic books when I was a kid.

Back then, he would take me to the drugstore — in the days before comic book stores were a thing. The books were displayed prominently on a revolving metal rack, set on a wooden floor. I can still remember the smell of the newsprint. He would let me pick out the titles I wanted, and we would go back to his apartment to read them.

My choices were predictable — Richie Rich, Woody Woodpecker, Rawhide Kid, or some superhero from Marvel or DC. I was always shocked when he picked one up and opened it. Was he reading it? He was. I remember thinking, “My dad would never do that.” I wasn’t allowed to read comics at all during the week, as it interfered with my homework. I appreciate the rule more now than I did then.

Once at the same drugstore, he purchased two “burp guns.” These were plastic guns that used roll caps and could fire as fast as you could turn…