My paternal uncle lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma for most of his life. He was handsome (in later years he sported a gorgeous head of white hair), roguish, and generous. He dropped in to visit his aging mother every day. He wore beautiful turquoise belt buckles. He was an occasional bootlegger, and I’d bet anything he packed heat on a regular basis.

I only saw him on my infrequent trips to Tulsa, but he always took time to connect with me, however briefly. One of the ways he did this was by catching my eye (often across a packed and noisy room) and slipping me an elegant, understated wink. I thought of him when I read the following passage in Robertson Davies’ The Cunning Man:

It was a sophisticated wink, not one of your grimacing winks that contorts the whole of one side of the face. It was the slightest descent of the upper lid of the left eye, but it spoke eloquently of gentlemanly derision.

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