Everything Major did was berries. How he looked, how he dressed, how he lit a cigarette. How the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt showed his ropy forearms and their down of golden hairs. How he nonchalantly turned his hand to check the time on his silver wristwatch. (Wristwatches were a piece of men’s fashion that became popular after the war, but people said, “That Fiskare swell was wearing one before the Armistice was signed.”)

Most berries of all was how Major talked.

When he wanted a kiss, he said, “Give me some cash.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” he said, when he didn’t believe something.

“Tell it to Sweeney,” he said, when he thought someone was pulling his leg.

He said, “I’m going to iron my shoelaces,” instead of saying he going to the bathroom.

“Bullshit,” he’d say in masculine company. “Bushwa,” if ladies were present. He referred to ladies he liked as chicks, dames and dishes. Men he liked were eggs and birds and cats. If Major really admired a man, he said, “That fellow knows his onions.”

If Kennet and Minor were good, Major called them pals. But if annoyed with his little nephews, Major would call them punks. Kennet tried to know his onions and not be a punk. While he loved his father with the unquestioning faith of water being wet and sugar being sweet, Kennet secretly believed the sun rose and set on his handsome and wild uncle.

“Major, why don’t you get married?” Minor asked. “You’re always surrounded by a bushel of tomatoes, why don’t you pick one?”

Major grinned. “I’m too busy. Besides, I’m like the Lone Ranger. Apart from my drinking, smoking and colorful language. Anyway, we’re talking about your mother, who’s a fine lady. A little severe, maybe, but… Well, look at her face when she’s around Nalle. You can see her whole heart in her eyes.”

This was true. Whenever a crack formed in Ingrid’s stern, Scandinavian facade, letting a bubble of spontaneous joy escape, it was usually for four-year-old Nalle. He was her favorite. Everyone knew it and no one begrudged it. After the difficult, dangerous birth of Minor and his stillborn twin, every doctor in Clayton, Alexandria Bay and Watertown told Ingrid she was done having children. Nalle proved them wrong.

“She brought that boy home like he was an Olympic gold medal,” Major said. “I’ll never forget the day because it was the first and only time I heard Ingrid swear.”

Kennet and Minor nearly fell over. “You heard her what?” They crowded the arms of Major’s chair like two news reporters after a scoop. “She said a swear? What? What did she say? What?”

Major blew smoke at the rafters of the porch. “Oh, I never tell tales out of school, my little fish.”