Uncle Buff

I promised a story or two about the Holland family's infamous Uncle Buff. Uncle Buff was born William Holland in Boston, MA, sometime in the 1880's. He was my Grandpa Holland's bachelor brother who had a real taste for the sauce and spent most of his adult life in a state of inebriation (totally toasted!). Most summers his home away from home was the "town tomb". For all you youngsters born after the invention of the backhoe, most towns maintained an above-ground tomb for people who died during the winter when the ground was frozen solid. When the earth thawed in spring, they planted the wintertime dead. Well, that's where Buff slept in the warm weather.

To earn money, Buff was employed as a laborer by a Watertown funeral home (which shall remain nameless to protect this very classy establishment still in business today). In those days people were taken to a funeral home after they died. They were embalmed and dressed in their Sunday best, and then were returned to their home where the wake and funeral would be held. Buff and another gentleman were called to remove a body from a house. As they carried the dear departed down two flights of stairs, the corpse "broke wind". Uncle Buff stopped, stared at the body, and announced, "If he can fart, he can walk." He then dropped his end and left the house.

My father told me about the time one cold winter when a city plow was doing its snow clearing duties. The fellow riding shotgun saw something in the dim light of evening that was rolling in front of the plow as the truck moved forward. Lo and behold, it was Uncle Buff! He had fallen asleep in a snow bank (being the depths of winter, the tomb probably had tenants) and had been scooped up by the plow blade along with the snow bank. God only knows how long he'd been traveling in front of the plow.

Of course Buff went on the wagon periodically. He cast aside his former drinking companions ("Those bums!") and turned over a new leaf. Buff would go to his sister-in-law (my Nana) who had a soft heart. She would outfit him in some of Grandpa's clothes--suit, shirts, undies, hat, and shoes. Of course Grandpa had a fit when he saw Buff sporting HIS clothers--"For God's sake, Peg, my brand new bowler hat?!!" Grandpa would get him a job and for a many a long month Buff would walk the straight and narrow. During one of these sober periods, Grandpa got Buff a job as a police officer in Watertown (Grandpa was a selectman and the owner of a hardware store in East Watertown). All went along swimmingly until one day Buff lurched into Grandpa's hardware store while proudly wearing his policeman's uniform. He had fallen off the wagon with a great crash. Grandpa watched him approach the counter with horror. "Give me that uniform! And the hat and the nightstick! And for the love of God, give me that !&+# pistol!!"

Where and when Buff died is a mystery. Dad said he was buried "in Boston somewhere". It's characters like Buff whose stories bring life to a family history and brighten the happy remembrances at reunions. Peace to you, Uncle Buff.