Written By “Plug” Garrett
Anybody who knowed my Uncle Frank knowed a drank of liquor wud’n safe around him. Lordy, that man could drink! I knowed Uncle Frank fer nigh on to 50 years, and I dare say he was drunk for at least forty of ’em. I’ve often said that I hope Saint Peter keeps good records, ’cause when he asks Uncle Frank to give account of his life, he ain’t gonna remember two thirds of it — the time he was drunk and the time he was recovering from Aunt Emma knocking the jackass out of him. It didn’t matter what it wuz (or whose it wuz), be it hair tonic, shoe polish, or what have ya’, if it had any percentage of alcohol in it, he took a slug. Poor ol’ Aunt Emma couldn’t keep ‘niller extract in the pantry, but I can say for certain that ‘niller extract on his breath smelled far better than Olde English furniture polish.
Even on his most sober day, Uncle Frank could get good mileage off fumes. On one rare occasion, Aunt Emma got him to go to a revival meetin’ down at the Pentecostal church. It was all well intended and done with hopes that Uncle Frank might join others in the straight and narrow way. When the church brethren and sisters saw him comin’ up the walk, they began noddin’ in agreement that the Lord was about to do a mighty work.
Aunt Emma guided Uncle Frank to a seat near the front, right behind Miss Julie McCoy, one of the finest Christian ladies you would ever want to meet. Miss Julie was a quiet, respectable lady who was active in every facet of church work down at the Presbyterian Church.
It seemed that Uncle Frank’s very presence was making the final night of the revival one to remember. The singin’ was ‘specially jubilant, the prayer warriors stormed the gates of hell with thunderin’ vigor, all the while the visitin’ preacher was hurlin’ fire and brimstone at the congregation and danglin’ sinners over hell on a cotton thread. All was well until Miss Julie, now fully inebriated from Uncle Frank’s breath, jumped up with a whoop that’d make a Johnny Reb proud and began singin’ out “Nearer My God to Thee.”
After that, Aunt Emma gave up tryin’ to reform Uncle Frank and jes’ took up tryin’ to keep him safe. For this, she normally sent their oldest boy, Clarence, to tag along with ’em. Now, Uncle Frank was not what you’d call a bright bulb, but compared to Clarence, his wattage output was pretty good. Uncle Frank never was a ray of sunshine when he was sober, but when he got drunk, he grew depressed and bemoaned his situation. In short, he was a cryin’ drunk.
During one of his Saturday late-night binges, Clarence, as usual, was keepin’ him company. Somehow or other they found themselves settin’ out in a pine thicket with their backs against a log and Uncle Frank complainin’ about his sorry ways. In the midst of it all, he said, “Son, I ain’t worth killin’. You ought to jes’ pick up a stick and knock me in the head. Put me and your mama out of misery.” He went on in that vein until he felt somethin’ bust him upside the head. When he come to his senses, he heard Clarence rambling ’round in the brush and said, “Clarence, what are you doing?”
“Well Paw,” came the reply. “That limb broke, and I’m lookin’ fer another one.”
Still seeing stars and holding his throbbing head, Uncle Frank said, “That’s alright son. Jes’ come over here and sit down.”
A few years back, one of Aunt Emma and Uncle Frank’s neighbors decided to git shut of their chickens ’cause of them tearin’ up the garden and flower beds. They told Auntie and Uncle they could have ’em if they wanted ’em, and they went over to take a look. They spied a couple of nice bakin’ hens and ’bout 20 fryers and agreed it’d be worth their time to put ’em up in the fridge-a-darey freezer. They spent the next day executing the feathered sinners. Uncle Frank used the axe, but Aunt Emma preferred to grab ’em by the neck and twist off the heads. She was mighty good at it. I reckon she got the practice wringin’ Uncle Frank’s scrawny neck.
A few days later, once the chickens was packed away in the fridge-a-darey freezer, they left for Florida to visit some family fer a couple of weeks. The summer turned hot right after they left home, and we occasioned a lot of evenin’ thunderstorms with horrific lightnin’. During one of those storms, lightnin’ run in on the fridge-a-darey and knocked it out. By the time Uncle Frank and Aunt Emma got home and open the house door, everythin’ had turned sorta rotten. Aunt Emma said it was so bad in the house that they could hardly git in for the blowflies trying to git out.
Well, that’s all the time I got fer flappin’ my jaw. I reckon I better get on down the road, but jes’ remember, keep your plow in the ground and make the furrows straight.
J.L. West – Author
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