Author: Jack McGugart

Jack was one of my favorite uncles. He was born near the turn of the last century (1900) and I decided to let him live on as an author. Ironically, Jack had a long term relationship with a lady, Ceil McGinnis, who was related to my wife, but Jack and Ceil never married. The story, which I guess is true, is that Jack promised his dying mother that he would take care of his older brother George. George had been injured in an accident as a young boy. He fell off a wagon and hurt his head. As a result he lost his hearing and was never able to speak clearly. My Mother loved him so. I always thought that he was a bit scary because he was very tall, bald, difficult to understand and couldn't hear. I remember though that he would come to our house on Christmas Eve and my Mom would have a box of chocolate covered cherries for him. He would eat the entire box with some help from my Mom. My Mom always had a glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream on Christmas Eve and when I turned 12 she let me have a glass with her. A tradition was born. To this day I have a glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream and chocolate covered cherries on Christmas Eve. When I sip the sherry I think of My Uncle George, my Mom and of course my Uncle Jack. I was never sure and never thought about it until recently, but I don't know why Jack didn't come on Christmas Eve. I like to think that he spent his time with Ceil while George wasn't home. Getting back to Jack; he was very charming and extremely witty. He knew and used all the old sayings, which my Mom would often echo. I remember them both saying them, but I'll be damned if I can remember any of them. He was also a wonderful story teller. He was one of those rare old guys who could get and keep a young person's attention for hours. He was always smiling and laughing. When Uncle George died, Uncle Jack moved in with my parents. I was still very young, but I was married and no longer living at home. He was only there a few months though before he died. I remember how fast his health seemed to deteriorate after Uncle George died. I think he thought that his purpose had been fulfilled, but he didn't know what I had in store for him. My writing desk is a reproduction of a Civil War officer's campaign desk. It has a table that folds and can be moved anywhere and a box that sits on top of it with several cubby holes. The box has a writing table that folds down. I chose this desk because I write at a lake house that most of the time is used by me and my wife, but all of the children and grandchildren are welcome to come and stay. The portable desk enables me to easily move to any quiet place in the house, out on a porch or anywhere on the property. The name inscribed in large letters on the desk is Jack McGugart. Now you know all you need to know about Jack and me.