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Uncle

Uncle escaped. He took a handgun and descended into the cellar, and the

air resonated with the muffled sounds of a car backfiring. I hardly

knew either of them, he or Auntie. Daddy said he did it to get away

from her. That may be. Anyway, he left a fortune. A million, Daddy

said, at a time when a new Cadillac could be had for less than four

Today a Caddy is forty grand, Auntie is polluting the soil, my hair is

silver, and I can say with neither boast nor shame, that I have not

known another human critter whom I yet despise. Sitting at this

keyboard, I cannot name another. Surely one exists, I'm not that

angelic, but I can't produce one at the moment. This is not owing to

faulty memory; something much more splendid, and no credit to me.

But Auntie wronged Mom. A wretched soul, she wronged others, too; others

whom I love. Those happenings I've dismissed. But not Mom's.

We were the poor kin, the black sheep, victims of Daddy's wanderlust.

Poverty earns you that status when the others have money. And now an

injury prevented Daddy working, so Mom accepted the role of breadwin

. . .

ner

with the same grace and humor that she accepted all of life. Tonight's beans and potatoes vary

from last nights only in the way they are prepared.

Mom bought a roast pan, an event the equivalent to most families

bringing home a new car. and helping Mom wash at the old

wringer-type machine. Though the youngest, and a male, I was

assigned the evening meals . Older,

with its porcelain chipped away in places.

How did she manage? That's a secret known only to moms, I guess. She set it on the center of the table and we

dragged up chairs and just gawked at it.

The house, a recycled army barracks, had neither inside walls, nor

plumbing, at first, but it was home. She made our

shirts and the patches for our jeans. Everyone

brought potluck, and Mom couldn't wait to take the roast pan.

Approximate Word count = 752
Approximate Pages = 3 (250 words per page double spaced)

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