Uncle Dude's House ... 1959

Uncle Dude

My father had nine siblings. Ellis, Millard, Alma, Nancy, Dillard, Willard, and Earl. Two sisters, Mae and Johnnie, died young.

I loved them all, but Dillard, who was called Dude, was my favorite. He was a jovial year-round Santa Claus. Since he never married and had children of his own, he was especially fond of nieces and nephews.

When Dude was small, the story goes, his mother washed his face, combed his hair and started him down the road to school each morning. Obediently, he walked beside his brothers and sisters until he was well out of Mama's sight, then he veered off into the woods where his days were spent hunting, fishing and trapping. Dude had dogs to feed. At one time, they say, he had nineteen hounds and strays. A huge cloud of dust in the distance meant Dude and his dogs were coming down the dirt road.

When School-skipping days were finally behind him, Dude joined the army. After world war II ended, he returned to his roots in White County, Arkansas where he bought land and raised cattle. More and more land and more and more cattle with every passing year until he became quite wealthy. Still ...he spent almost his entire lifetime in a small two-bedroom house with no indoor plumbing and no telephone. There was, thank God, electricity. A pot-bellied stove provided warmth in winter. A large freezer was filled with beef. The pantry was well-stocked.

It was a well-equipped year-round deer camp. The best in the state.

I was twenty-three when life made an unexpected turn that left me standing on Uncle Dude's doorstep with two-year-old Patti in my arms and four-year-old Tony by my side. The door opened wide as my uncle welcomed us in.

Within 24 hours my children were spoiled beyond salvaging.

Nicknames were issued. I remained the "Jodie" I had always been to Uncle Dude. Tony became "Tony Bill," and Patti, it seemed, was to be called "Piddle."

Uncle Dude began most sentences with, "Aye Golly."

"Aye Golly, Jodie, stop screaming! That's only a king snake. It won't bite!"
"Aye Golly, Tony Bill, hurry up! We got cattle to load!"
"Aye Golly, Piddle, don't cry now. I'm gonna bring you a big sack of candy!"

Aye Golly, my children were happy.

First morning in our new world, I dressed Tony in sweet navy blue shorts with suspenders, crisp white shirt and darling knee socks. He climbed up into the cab of Uncle Dude's cattle truck and Patti and I waved goodbye as the two of them left to run a few errands. Twelve hours later they rolled back in. I was half out of my mind with worry. Where had they been? Tony's dress clothes, which I never saw again, had been replaced by rugged levi's, boots and a cowboy hat.

The noise of a real live pony kicking his way off the back of the truck, successfully drowned out most of the tongue lashing I leveled at my uncle.

"Aye golly, Jodie!" The man finally noticed I was upset and patted my shoulder ... "We sure didn't know you were worrying!"

Four years of nurturing, protecting and cuddling had gone into bonding with my son. One day with his great Uncle Dude unraveled those bonds and tossed them to the wind. I folded away Tony's entire wardrobe.
Uncle Dude's newest ranch hand
would never wear short pants
and knee socks again.


Thank God I still had my daughter.

Maybe.

Patti sometimes wet her bed. I wanted her to sleep in diapers but she found the idea offensive. Her third birthday was only a few months away. She wasn't a baby anymore. I understood. Still ... there was this occasional matter of wet sheets in the morning. She and I were working on the problem ... limiting her intake of liquids after supper ... arranging extra pads to protect the mattress. It was a worry. She and I talked about it often.

Uncle Dude soon caught on and began a morning ritual of checking beds after breakfast. A dry bed meant the owner received money. Uncle Dude had an endless supply of quarters jingling in his pockets, ready to be transferred to small hands for the flimsiest of reasons ... or no reason at all. Somebody cleaned his plate. Here's a quarter. Somebody got her shoes on the right feet. Here's a quarter. This one brought in two sticks of stove wood. That one brought in the evening paper. Two more quarters changed hands.

Most mornings Patti was first one up, and if I didn't move fast enough to intercept her, I'd find the child in her uncle's room, whispering into his sleeping ear, "Uncle Dude, you want to check beds now?"

Once the man was up and dressed, she dogged his footsteps with a running line of chatter, "Come check my bed first, Uncle Dude. Will you check my bed first? I want you to check my bed first." When breakfast was finally behind us and Uncle Dude was ready to hold inspection, Patti held his hand and proudly led the way.

"Aye golly, Jodie's bed is dry," he'd say, as he ran his hand across my smooth bedspread.

"Aye golly, Tony Bill's bed is dry," he'd say, as he felt the top bunk blankets.

Bending low to check the bottom bunk, he'd make his final and most important announcement of the morning, "Aye golly, Piddle's bed is dry!"

Patti, with dark eyes shining and hands clapping, would race wildly through the house, zig-zagging around chairs and bouncing off the sofa before stopping breathlessly in front of Uncle Dude to collect her well-earned quarter.

Now and then we watched a different scene unfold. Patti dragged herself slowly from the bedroom, climbed upon a kitchen chair and remained silent. Questions directed her way went unanswered. When breakfast was served, Patti wouldn't look at her plate. She might never eat again in this life. Poor Uncle Dude had a hard time swallowing his food in the presence of such misery. Tony and I ate heartily. We were immune to Patti's near-death experiences.

When he could stall no longer, Uncle Dude quietly rose from the table and said, "I guess I'll check beds now." Tumbling off her chair, Patti rushed toward the bedroom, screaming, "Don't check my bed! Please, don't check my bed! Don't check my bed!" In an attempt to hide the evidence, she threw her small self face down across the scene of the crime.

Sadly, Uncle Dude straightened his hat and headed for the truck. Tony grabbed one more sausage biscuit and ran to catch up. He never knew where the truck was going ... maybe to the sale barn in Searcy. Maybe to the sawmill in the woods. The only important thing, from Tony's perspective, was to be in the cab before the wheels started turning.

One day Uncle Dude introduced Tony to the thrill of squirrel hunting. I glanced out the window and saw they had returned from the woods and were skinning critters in the back yard. Patti hurried out to see what was going on, and hurried right back in again, crying, "Uncle Dude is pulling the little squirrel's pants off!" When Uncle Dude brought the cut up, freshly washed squirrel into the kitchen for frying, I handed him the skillet. That's as far as I was prepared to go.

When dinner was on the table, everything looked delicious. Fried meat and gravy, creamed potatoes, hot biscuits, vegetables and a salad. We all took our seats. Uncle Dude dished out the entree. Making no connection between the meat she was eating and the little squirrel who lost his britches in the back yard, Patti dug right in. It was yummy.

Uncle Dude finished his first serving and went back for seconds.
Tony's face was pale as he stared at his plate.
I picked at my salad.
"Aye golly, Tony Bill, eat!" Uncle Dude encouraged.
"Uncle Dude," Tony's voice was small, "This is the little squirrel that ran up the tree?"
"Yes, Tony Bill. Eat! It's good!"
"Uncle Dude," Tony's voice could barely be heard now, "This is the little squirrel that jumped on the high limbs from one tree to another with his fluffy tail flying out behind him?"
"Yes! Yes! We shot him, Tony Bill! Eat up. Clean your plate."
"Uncle Dude," Tony whispered, " I don't ever want to eat this squirrel."

Hunting days were over.

Patti loved TV commercials. She could smell advertising on the way before the station break happened, and hurried to plop herself down in a small red rocker in front of our 17 inch black and white TV, where she gave rapt attention to doubling your pleasure with Doublemint gum and Ajax the foaming cleanser and Lifebuoy soap. When commercials ended she returned to whatever mischief was going on in other parts of the house.

With the exception of "Johnny Ringo," Patti wasn't interested in programs. She loved Johnny Ringo and studied him closely every Saturday night. This outlaw's theme song was fresh on her busy mind when Sunday morning rolled around.

Harmony Baptist was a small country church. Membership about 50. Uncle Dude was proud to have Tony, Patti and me beside him in his pew. Half-a-dozen young children often stood before the congregation to sing, "Jesus Loves Me." My children joined the group. Tony, willingly enough. Patti, quite eager.

Patti knew all the words to most children's hymns and when she practiced at home she sang like an angel. In church, she belted out the lyrics to "Johnny Ringo." Every Sunday. without fail. Johnny Ringo. She was the smallest child but she had the biggest voice. "Rin-go! John-ny Rin-go!" Jesus loves me never had a chance. Tony stood on the opposite end of the line from Patti, hoping people wouldn't know they were related. I squirmed. Uncle Dude beamed. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

Cute thing and I had many serious talks about her choir manners. Over and over again she promised to act right. Over and over again Johnny Ringo reverberated off the walls of that little church in the woods.

Sometimes, just for good measure ... in case Johnny Ringo wasn't humiliation enough ... in the middle of benediction, Patti, from the safety of Uncle Dude's arms, would go into her LifeBuoy commercial. Imitating a TV announcer's deep voice, she'd boom, "LifeBuoy! Soap never smelled this good before.

Pews shook with silent laughter.

Some years later that nice young preacher laid down his Bible and took up the bottle.

Poor soul.

I understood.