1 My Favorite Uncle   Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had it drilled into me that my uncle Lester was my favorite uncle. My mother would thrust the phone at me and say, “Uncle Lester wants to talk to you,” her voice infused with the same forced enthusiasm she used to describe the deliciousness of canned peas. “Tell him you love him.”   “I love you, Uncle Lester,” I’d say.   “Tell him he’s your favorite uncle.”   “You’re my favorite uncle.”   It got worse as I got older. I never knew what to say to him, and he never seemed all that interested in talking to me. When I became a teenager I felt silly telling him he was my favorite uncle, although my mother still urged me to do so. I’d say things like “Hey, how’s it goin’?” and he’d grunt some response. He might ask me a question about school. I imagine it was a great relief to both of us when my mother took back the phone. Our brief conversations always left me feeling embarrassed, and just a little bit creepy.   He was actually my great-uncle, having been my mother’s favorite uncle long before he was mine.   I didn’t know how much money he had, but he was rich enough that he never had to be nice to anyone. Our favorite uncle never visited us, and I think my mother initiated all the phone conversations with him. Later, after he got really sick, he wouldn’t