My mother just phoned.

One of my earliest memories is playing in my grandmother's backyard with my great-uncle Johnnie. Johnnie (he didn't like the 'uncle' part) was alternately taking drags on a cigarette and blowing bubbles, so that when the bubbles burst there was a little puff of smoke. I was about five, and I thought this was the most magical thing I'd ever seen. He and my aunt Aileen couldn't have children, so they spoiled my dad when he was little, and me growing up. They travelled Europe together in a caravan during the summers, and spent winters in the most beautiful house in Norfolk. They used to let me play in the caravan when I was visiting, and Johnnie took me and my sister to feed the ducks in the pond. Those ducks always followed us in a quacking herd up the path, and watched with me as Johnnie rolled a cigarette by hand with neat, deft movements.

When I grew old enough to understand, I found out that Johnnie flew a plane in the Berlin Airlift. This seemed to me to be very heroic, and it still does.

He never spoke much, and when he smiled it was a grin, flashed so quickly that if you blinked you could miss it. You could always tell when he was happy, because the corners of his eyes would crinkle as if he knew a wonderful secret.

A few years ago, he had a stroke, and they sold the caravan and stayed in Norfolk. This morning, he died.

So here's to my Uncle Johnnie; he was a lovely man.