memoir

Uncle Albutt Part 3

Uncle Albert somehow came up on a ninety-nine year lease on several acres on Dorcheat Bayou in Louisiana.  Ready to retire from farming, he decided a fish camp would provide a modest retirement income.  My father bought his farm and stock, but that’s a story for another day.  Obviously, he was a multi-talented man, able to turn his hand to any task.  His farm boasted two cabins.  He moved into the second cabin, disassembled the log house he was living in loaded it piece by piece on his old truck, and moved  it to his lease, where he went to work reassembling it just as it had originally been, except he added an additional bedroom, occasionally recruiting help from relatives with bigger jobs.  Once the reassembled house was in the dry, he took apart the second cabin, using the timber to cover over the logs and seal the house tighter.  One day, Daddy decided we’d go by and check on Uncle Albert’s progress. My older sister climbed on the unsecured log walls, tumbling them to the ground.  I was so glad she got to them before I did.  Neither Daddy nor Uncle Albert was pleased.  Daddy spent the rest of that evening and Saturday helping Uncle Albert get it back together.  None of us kids were invited along, for some reason.  When Uncle Albert was satisfied with his house, he used the rest of the salvaged lumber for fishing boats, a pier, fences, a bait shop, and outbuildings.  Soon he had a pretty good business going.  By the next spring, he had a large garden underway.

Prior to construction of his house, Uncle Albert took care of necessities,; first, a toilet before summoning all his nephews for the digging of a well, uphill from the toilet, of course.  They came, bringing all their wives and children, a festive day of barbecuing, fishing, children running wild, while the men took turns shoveling the hard red clay from the well site..  Only one man could be in the hole at a time.  The others stayed above ground, pulling the heavy dirt from the hole.  They all took their turns.  By the end of the first day, thanks to the high water table, water was beginning to seep in at a depth of twenty feet.  They dug a few feet more, set the curb so the well wouldn’t silt in, and came back the next day to build a protective well-housing.  Uncle Albert was able to draw a bit of water by the evening of the second day.

Along with all my cousins, I was desperate to be lowered by pulley and bucket as the fortunate diggers were, into the depths of that well.  Sadly, all the mothers and aunts were just as anxious to keep wayward kids out of the well, warning us away every time we came near.  However, were able to indulge in one other life-threatening activity as they focused on that well.  A gravel road ran down the steep hill along one side of Uncle Albert’s property where it intersected with another dirt road fronting his house alongside the steep-banked bayou. The occasional oil-truck, fisherman, or hunter who travelled that way would have had no expectation of kids running wild, since until only recently, it was nothing but woods.    Someone of my cousins had thoughtfully brought along their red wagon to Uncle Albert’s that day.  Naturally, we pulled that wagon to the top of the red-dirt hill, piled in as many cousins as would fit, and prepared for a thrilling coast down the steep graveled road.  There were no engineers among us.  Confident as only a cluster of kids can be, we set off for a bone-rattling ride.  That wagon clattered and bounced, held down only by the weight of kids.  A couple of the smaller ones were pitched out, left squalling in our dusty tracks.  The clattering, crying, and dust cloud caught the attention of the well-diggers and mothers who were laying out the picnic lunch, secure in the knowledge we weren’t falling in the well.  As they looked on at the screaming wagonload of kids hurtling down the hill, an oil truck approached the crossing at the bottom.  It slammed on its brakes, swerving enough to allow us to pass, though our unlikely survival was concealed by the massive dust cloud.  The wagon flew on toward the high bank of the bayou, where we were saved by a brush thicket just short of the water.

In the manner of parents at that time, once the loving parents found their children weren’t dead, they gratefully expressed their joy with beatings for all. I had one fine ride down that hill, but I never got another crack at it.

Depriving Bonnie

I love, love, love my sisters-in-law, however, to protect the guilty, in this story, they will remain nameless. I also love to can all kinds of food. Taking advantage of chicken I’d caught on sale, I canned up several quarts of chicken and dumplings, saving back plenty for dinner when Sybil((alias) and her husband were to join us.

At dinner, Sybil told us of her friend Bonnie’s recent accident and broken leg. Concerned for Bonnie, I gave Sybil two quarts of my chicken and dumplings for the unfortunate Bonnie after reminding Sybil to extract a promise to tell Bonnie I had to have my jars back, My generosity does not extend to jars. Like all canners, I am territorial about my precious jars.

Sybil took my jars. A few evenings later, Sybil and her partner in crime found themselves at dinner time with no particular plan. My chicken and dumplings sat innocently on the counter, awaiting their trip to poor, hungry Bonnie. Reasoning Bonnie didn’t need two quarts, hunger overtook them, They put Bonnie’s dinner on to heat for their dinner. Before the dumplings came to a simmer, another sister-in-law showed up hungry, with her starving son in tow. Sybil made them her willing accomplices without a thought for Bonnie.

Needless to say, Bonnie’s dumplings were soon history. The good news is, I did get my jars back.

So, if your name is Bonnie, you broke your leg, and nobody brought you chicken and dumplings, it’s not my fault.

Cousin Raymond

Cousin Raymond was the family icon of greed. I grew up with Bud, sharing many meals at his house. His mother was polite enough not to slander me so freely, so I never tired of hearing of Cousin Raymond’s gluttony. She resurrected him often to shame her children in the throes of greed. They were raised just like us. Desserts were usually reserved for Sundays and holidays. Also, after school and in between meal snacks were probably dried-out breakfast biscuits, flapjacks, or a piece desiccated cornbread languishing on the stovetop. Sometimes, a day or two after payday, peanut butter and saltines miraculously survived.

I don’t imply we were too picky to gobble anything that didn’t bite us first. We just didn’t look forward to breakfast rejects. Should an errant plate of cookies or bag of chips show up, we fell on it like ravenous beasts, ate all we could hold, and tried to get more when we felt a little better.

When at his family was at their greediest and most in need of shaming, they’d be accused of being just like Cousin Raymond. It seems when Cousin Raymond’s family had company for dinner, big old, dumb Cousin commenced bawling like a bull calf. “ They’re gittin’ it all, Mama! They’re gonna eat it all. Don’t let’em eat it all!”

Cousin Raymond’s mama indulgently heaped his plate with goodies before anyone else had a chance to even line up instead of whooping his behind like any right-thinking person expected! That Cousin Raymond had it figured out!

Barbie’s Peanut Butter Cake with Peanut Butter Fudge Frosting


2c flour
2c sugar
1t baking soda
1/2 t salt
1stick margarine
1/2 c peanut butter
1 c water
1/2 c buttermilk
2 eggs
1 t vanilla
Place dry ingredients in bowl. Bring margarine, peanut butter, and water to a boil. Pour over dry ingredients, mix well. Add buttermilk, eggs and vanilla. Mix well and pour into greased jelly roll pan. Bake 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Spread with frosting while cake is warm.

Frosting:
1/2 c peanut butter
1 stick margarine
5 T water
2 t vanilla
1 lb powdered sugar
1 c chopped nuts
Bring water, margarine and peanut butter to a boil. Add vanilla, then stir in sifted powdered sugar. If too stiff, slowly add warm water until spreading consistency,

If you don’t have nuts, use chunky peanut butter. I added 4 oz. Bakers chocolate while bringing frosting to a boil, just because chocolate and peanut butter are best friends.

Barbie’s Peanut Butter Cake with Peanut Butter Fudge Frosting

We went to a Labor Day reunion in Kansas last weekend. Bud’s cousin Barbie, one of the best cooks I know brought this cake: word must have gotten out ahead of time. I foolishly waited till the end of the line. It was gone on first pass when the crowd went through. I made one for myself today! If a crowd shows up to dinner at my house tonight I’ll cut myself a piece before serving anybody else, cook’s privilege!

I think this cake would do well as 9×13, layer cake, or bundt cake.

Happy Homecoming

Our big guy, Croc, was so glad to see us after our three day trip, He’s always unhappy to see the suitcases come out but feels better after learning, Kylie, his dog sitter will be staying with him and his brother, Izzy.

Croc came to live with us about six years ago. His original owner was a forty-year-old man in South Carolina who died suddenly. Grandma, an eighty-year-old lady, was overwhelmed by his rowdiness. Sadly, she had to return him to the shelter. Since it was winter, Croc was sent to New Jersey, which had a dearth of adoptable dogs in winter. A relative’s family gave him his next home. Their tiny NJ yard was inadequate. Croc caused a ruckus, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood.

We’d learned to love him, so brought him home with us. We were concerned about how he’d get along with our old American Eskimo dog but they became friends at first sight. Croc just adores children. When we are lucky enough to have a young visitor, he tries to claim them for himself.

Out of Town

I’ve neglected my writing the last few days for the best of reasons. I’ve been out of town for a a family holiday. We gathered with family at one of Bud’s last remaining aunt’s home in Kansas. Family members ranged between five weeks and past ninety years in age. As you’d expect, everybody brought their finest food. As always, the macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake disappeared first. The weather was perfect, balmy and pleasant.

Aunt Beulah’s yard was perfectly groomed with plenty of shade and tempting seating spots. Everyone spent the day outdoors as we admired the baby, noted how big the children were getting, watched budding romances, and teased cousins about getting old. There were eighty-eight relatives and friends present. I don’t think I could gather a crowd like that if my life depended on it. Aunt Beulah is obviously well-loved. It was like dozens of family gatherings I’ve attended over the years. Bud’s aunt is nearing ninety with all the first cousins Bud romped with in the seventies, far past romping. They brought out all their stories of hijinks and amped them up. It was a perfect day!

Some of the cousins
Aunts Anita and Beulah

Uncle Albutt Part 2

Uncle Albert was the only person I ever knew who never attended school at all.  He couldn’t write or read a word.  I remember seeing him bring documents for Mother to read and interpret and pen his replies.  He was the first person I ever saw make an X mark for his signature. Mother wrote his name afterward and witnessed it. I was filled with awe that a person had never attended school.  Mother filled out his income tax returns for him every year.

Uncle Albert was very shrewd in his accounts, despite his lack of education.  He handled his business affairs skillfully, requiring no assistance.  He was a skilled trader.  I remember hearing him tell Daddy how he left the house one morning with a goat to barter and after several trades, came home with a shotgun and box of shells.  I never knew him to hold public employment.   He farmed forty acres more than fifty years, providing a living for him and his wife.  He paid cash, bartered, or did without.  The whole time I knew him, he drove a nineteen forty-eight Ford pickup truck.  He and Aunt Jewel smoked Prince Albert Tobacco and rolled their own cigarettes when money was tight, and bought Raleigh cigarettes when they were flush.  Aunt Jewel saved Raleigh Cigarette coupons for prizes.  From time to time, she’d show off a fancy vase or pair of pillowcases. I never knew of them being without cigarettes of some sort.

Daddy was always honored when Uncle Albert and Aunt Jewel came to visit.  One evening, Mother cooked our favorite, fried chicken.  We never got enough of her fried chicken, particularly the crisp scrambles of flour that dropped off during the frying.  Knowing this, Mother scraped up every crisp bit and put it on the platter with the chicken.  After the chicken was devoured, she divided those scrambles among the kids.  They were delicious, a highly anticipated treat.  That evening, the chicken platter passed from on end of the table to the other several times.  Uncle Albert liked Mother’s chicken, too.  As he forked  the last piece, the unthinkable happened.  He tipped the platter up and poured all those beautiful scrambled bits onto his plate.  Our eyes were huge with horror.  Surely he hadn’t just scooped up all the best all for himself!  He had!  Mother shushed us with a look as he noisily crunched and chomped through the pile.  A more heartbreaking sound was never heard.   In just a few seconds, he finished off our stolen treat, then burped his appreciation, wiped his mouth, leaned back his chair and remarked, “That’s the best part of the chicken.  I ain’t never got enough.”

We knew just how he felt.

Tale of My Uncle’s Tail

imageWhen I got older, I found out Uncle Albert and Aunt Jewel weren’t dull; they were just worn out. Besides that, Uncle Albert had a fascinating physical attribute Daddy slipped up and mentioned one day, to his later regret. Uncle Albert had a tail! From that moment forward, my brother and I stalked him, probabably the first nasty little, voyeuristic kids in the word to molest a pitiful, worn-out old man. We kept hoping his worn-out old khakis would slide off his bony behind, giving us a glimpse of that tail. Eventually Daddy realized why we were pestering him and threatened us enough to put a stop to our tagging.

At any rate, once I got sly enough to ferret out family gossip, I found out Aunt Jewel had once been a very pretty, if not too virtuous, girl. Apparently, Uncle Albert brought her to his house to visit one evening when his wife, Mary, was out. Mary, came home early and found them together in her bedroom. Not surprisingly, she was unhappy. When she tried to get in the bedroom with them, Uncle Albert slammed the door on her arm, breaking it. He and Aunt Jewel became a couple after that.

It’s not surprising he preferred her to the unreasonable Mary. She was a very understanding woman. She told Albert’s sister,my grandma, “Albert has to have a woman! Fortunately, her three sisters and mother were all friendly women, of questionable virtue, willing to accommodate Albert’s needs when she wasn’t well. Uncle Albert and Aunt Jewel lived together over thirty years, becoming very devoted members of their local church the last ten years or so. They gave very good advice once they got too old to set a bad example.

Uncle Albert’s Barn

My great-Uncle Albert’s barn raised the bar for what a barn should be.  A rambling, splotched caterpillar, it sprawled behind his rustic house.   It was an amalgamation of scavenged lumber of various vintages. Over many years, he’d added on as the need arose and opportunity allowed Of an age to have experienced The Great Depression in its entirety, he understood waste not, want not.  His house and outbuildings were built largely of reclaimed lumber.   One stall of his barn was lied high with neatly stacked reclaimed lumber stored in readiness for his next project.  He had recently been hired to tear down and haul off an old house, the very lumber now resting in his barn.  Coffee cans of used nails sat on a shelf.  As tempting as it looked, one hard look from Uncle Albert made it clear his lumber was off limits for climbing.

Wisely, Albert did not seem anxious for the company of bothersome children, making no effort to be friendly.  In fact, I never noticed him behaving particularly warmly toward my dad., even though Daddy clearly admired him and sought his approval.  Uncle Albert was as likely to grump at Daddy as he was at us.  I was mystified at seeing Daddy treated as a troublesome child.  Daddy had spent months on end living and working with Uncle Albert during His childhood of The Great Depression.  His father had died young, leaving a widow with seven young children to to raise.

The barns multiple rooms opened off a central open area.  It’s many rooms held ancient implements, harness, plows and all manner of equipment neatly organized.  An ancient wagon Relaxed in one stall, in readiness for hay-hauling.  We were free to play on it, as long as we weren’t destructive.  Hay was stacked in numerous stalls.  Uncle Albert mad it clear the hay was not there for our pleasure. In one stall russet and sweet potatoes lay in their beds of hay, dusted with lime. String  of beans, dried apples, pears, and onions hung from the rafters. Several barn cats patrolled the barn to keep mice and rats at bay.  They weren’t the friendly house cat variety.

The barn was roofed with hand-split wooden shingles.  I can’t imagine all the hours he spent splitting them.  A neat fence made of various types of wire garden entry to the barn.  A couple of large metal road signs served as fence panels, adding to the barnyard’s appeal.

I just loved that barn.  I wish I could spend another afternoon poking around in it.