The Salins brothers didn’t know from calling ahead. Sunday afternoons, when there was nothing else to do, they’d jump into their cars and drive around the beltway, dropping in on one another. You never knew when Eph, or Joe, likely not Calvin, who was probably still sleeping, or Charlie, who was at the track, or Mark or Jerry, who sadly had passed away too soon. Maybe not Sid, who was out selling cars or cheering on the Redskins, but otherwise, on any given weekend, if the weather was right, you’d hear a knock at the door and open it to find Joe, or Donny, or Ephraim standing there.

They’d bring food from Katz’, they’d knock together sandwiches, they’d loudly discuss some issue of the day, the war in Vietnam, gas prices, how in the heck it was that a peanut farmer from Georgia was in the White House, and how none of it mattered, really, because, God-forbid, we were all going to die one day anyway.

Sid, Mark, Calvin, Charlie, Jerry, and now Ephraim. All gone. Only Joe (90) and Donny (86) are left to circle the beltway. (And their little sisters, Gladys and Lilly, of course, but the women always had the decency to call first. Or invite you over. You’d never find an aunt at the door, only an uncle.)

My uncle Ephraim passed away last Saturday. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor after driving the wrong way on the highway last New Year’s Eve. With characteristic self-acceptance and grace, he declined treatment, and instead opted to live out his numbered days surrounded by his kids, grand kids, large extended family, numerous colleagues and friends, and his two beloved dogs, Arlo and Benji.

One of the last times I saw Eph, on Jan 30th at Uncle Joe’s 90th birthday celebration, (where Eph emceed the day, telling stories and jokes about their quirky and impoverished upbringing in the produce biz) he greeted me at the door with a hearty, “I love you so much!” No “Hello,” no “Hi, it’s nice to see you,” just that: A great big statement of unconditional love. (Uncle Joe, too, greeted me this way). What good men the Salins brothers are and were. What good story tellers, great senses of humor they possessed, what quick minds.

I loved my Uncle Eph. He was funny and smart. When I was little, he’d speak to me in silly voices. He always made me feel valid, and welcomed and loved. To quote the songwriter, Richard Shindell, “He was always faithful, he was always kind, and he walked off with this heart of mine.”

I’ll miss you, Uncle Eph.