How Beloved Uncle Louis Hid Our Holiday Money In The Toilet Paper

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My family has had a wonderful sense of humor for as long as I can remember. Jokes came from mouth and hand, word and deed — all flowing from brains that thought it wise to bring needed laughs into the world.

It is wise and Uncle Louis was masterful at this, and his expertise shone at Christmas time.

Uncle Louis was my great-uncle on my mom’s side. He lived with Aunt Mary, his sister, in upstate Pennsylvania, and we’d spend a dedicated day with them each Christmas as we spent the holiday period with their brother — my grandfather — in a town half an hour away.

We kids loved Mary and Louis as if they were hybrid grandparents. They were short and loving — Aunt Mary like a round peanut butter cup, Uncle Louis like a lean candy cane. Speaking of candy, they kept a bite-size candy display on their dining room table year-round, though at Christmas it was an over-the-top display. It had variety, sugar, glitzy tinfoil, and remained ever-present in everyone’s periphery.

I like how I still talk all dreamy about that display.

Mary and Louis lived in the house their parents raised their family in after they migrated to the US from Yugoslavia to work in the coal mines. If it’s true what they say about the last minutes of life, I expect Louis and Mary will pass through my consciousness along with that cozy house and those sweet memories as my body makes its final perceptive excursion. Those pieces of my life are part of the permanent map of my mind.

One of the highlights of that map is the prowess with which Uncle Louis played good-natured jokes on us kids. You could say he was in his middle age, sure, but he was also a kid at heart so he was one of us, too.

His annual prankster magnum opus came at Christmas as he took untold pains to meticulously set up the silliest gifts for his grandnieces and nephews. He gave us money as our gift, but he didn’t make it easy on us. First, we had to figure out where the money was, and then we had to work to get our hands on it.

I can’t imagine how long it took that old, polio-stunted man to gently unroll scads of toilet paper rolls for all the children — there were many of us — then carefully tape coins in the middle section of each roll. Then he carefully re-rolled the TP back to its original state, glued the end of the last tissue delicately back onto the body of the roll, placed it into its paper cover, and then into a box for Christmas wrapping.

When each kid tore open the wrapping paper and box, only to find some rolls of toilet paper, the confused recipient would stare at their Christmas present, dumbfounded.

“Do you like it?” Uncle Louis would ask, in a faux hopeful tone, as if he truly did mean to give us toilet paper for Christmas.

But, sorry, Uncle Louis. It only took a couple years of your antics before each kid got the message, and knew to expect some extravagantly planned, absurd gift antics when they went to see you. No kid could wait to visit Uncle Louis at Christmas.

In other words, Uncle Louis was famous.

One year there was cash inside brand-new Coca-Cola bottles — with their caps on as if they’d never been opened. Uncle Louis owned the hardware store in town, so he had access to new bottle caps you could affix to used bottles yourself. Kids didn’t know this kind of thing — adults didn’t either. That year he perplexed many.

He hid coins and dollar bills inside all kinds of products and contraptions, a puzzler was he, and his audience was baffled though engaged countless times — though sadly long before the cellphone camera came into existence. All we have for posterity are the giggles and bursts of love that these memories bring up. But maybe that’s all we ever need.

All I ever need is Uncle Louis living in my heart. It’s plenty.

Today I pine for those old times. I know the world is constantly changing, and advances shape and shift society to a slim resemblance of what came only decades before. I know, too, that childhood is a special time, and the good memories will seem so elevated compared to the rest of life. This is not to mention how we miss those who are no longer around to roll money into toilet paper for us. Even if I got a roll of hidden money this year, my adult reaction to it would pale compared to my childhood reaction.

But then this leads me to see what time and memory have given me here. Maybe the best thing Uncle Louis gave me was a template for bringing light and laughter into the world. And especially now, when the days are short, and the holidays are ripe for inter-personal celebration, and light is the gift of the moment. Laughter is one of the surest modes of celebratory connection.

Warm connection is how we pass through these months, and each of us has some unique strength that can cheer hearts who need it.

While we all need cheering, it's good to remember some need extra this time of year. Some have gone through loss. Some are struggling in various ways. Some just need a little boost. We all do. We all need an Uncle Louis right now.

But he’s here, in the form of us, just like we’ll be here in the kids today after we pass and they grow. How can we bring delight into the world then? There are as many ways as there are yearnings to spread light. And there is no such thing as a surplus. It’s like breath. It’s how we live. It’s certainly how we want to live.

Happy Holidays to all.

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Be well, friends.