As a boy about ten, I would sometimes spend a week in the country with my Aunt and uncle and their son, a few years older than me
. My uncle was a plumber and also a mortician, with the building next door being the morgue. It was the early 1960s, and life in a whistle-stop town didn't offer much in the way of entertainment unless you called picking up dead bodies a good time. When someone passed away, my uncle got the call to pick them up, and if he was on a plumbing job, my cousin went in his place. I remember going with him and helping him load the corpse into a van, and once back, unloading the body where it would stay until my uncle did what he did, as well as seeing a hairdresser or barber who came to do the hair and makeup. If I were lucky, nobody would die during my stay.
In the springtime, the streams would begin to flow, and that meant sucker fishing. My cousin outfitted me in hip waders, a three-pronged pole, and a lantern, as nighttime was the only time the fish appeared. The object was to carefully navigate the streams, waiting for the fish to bump into your wader when you'd spear them and put them in a gunny sack. They weren't good to eat, but made excellent fertilizer. On one such night when the outside temperature was in the forties, we headed out for another night of sucker fishing. Everything was going well until I accidentally speared my waders, and ice-cold water poured in. My cousin was several yards ahead of me and didn't hear my pleas for help as I quickly sank deeper into the cold water. Finally, I saw the light from his lantern as he reached me and began to laugh. Nice going, kid he said, pulling me to the bank of the stream and helping me out of the now useless waders. No big deal, he said his waders had been patched many times as well. Back at his truck, he gave me a blanket and started the engine to get some heat inside so I wouldn't literally freeze to death. Once back home, he told the story to my Aunt and uncle, who had a big laugh about everything, as I just smiled and chalked it up to country living.
Both my Aunt and uncle loved their martinis, and when we went to the shooting club for dinner, it wasn't uncommon to see each of them drink four or five martinis before, during, and after dinner. My cousin would drive home down dirt roads in their big oldsmobile convertible at speeds that scared me to death while both his parents slept in the back seat. They were the reason I never liked a martini to this day.
If I visited in early Summer, they would take me to the county fair, about thirty miles away, with my uncle breaking speed records, which I later learned was just country driving. I can tell you that my legs almost gave out as I got out of the car. But all was forgotten as I got to go on as many rides as I wanted, mostly with my cousin, but sometimes with my Aunt, who loved the Ferris wheel as much as I did. My uncle found the beer tent, and after giving me a twenty-dollar bill and telling me to meet him at the tent in one hour, I ran off, where I played every midway game of chance, sometimes winning a small stuffed animal that one time my cousin threw out the car window, and getting a slap alongside his head by my Aunt.
All in all, my visits were memorable, some more than others, like picking up dead people, but there was also swinging down from the hayloft into a hay wagon. My cousin showed me his hideout in the back of the barn, where he kept his Playboys, which didn't do much for me at ten years old. But he told me he'd hurt me bad if I told on him. Wader fishing and county fairs. Breaking the land speed record on dirt roads and hoping I'd be back next year
Mike 2025
No comments:
Post a Comment