Uncle Bob

(Some words are for historical accuracy. I hate the words and the times that created them.)

 

Uncle Bob rocks back and forth to the blues music I brought back from college. His arms wave to direct the band. The pint of Beam in his right hand makes frequent trips to his mouth. He shakes his head, sending heavy strands of jet black hair across his forehead. The hair comes straight from Quapaw ancestors as do the high cheekbones and rich complexion. Moles from his Irish mother pepper the landscape of his face.

His stops his directing.

“This music reminds me of that old blue-gummed boy that lived down by the railroad tracks. He could play and sing like nobody's business.” He chuckles and takes another swig.

I laugh with him but my stomach knots. How can I tell him that his racist comment sickens me? He is my Uncle Bob; the man who gave me my first drink, the man who first took me coon hunting to hear the hounds sing in the night. How can I insult the man whose jokes light up oppressive family reunions otherwise dominated by gossip and grudges as old as the Ozarks? Without Uncle Bob’s humor, darkness sours the spirit of a family many call poor white trash. And it is true they may not be noble, they may not have a pedigree, but they're tough enough to handle whatever God, man, or nature can dish out.

The band’s tempo quickens. I rise and turn up the music.

Uncle Bob’s arms become wings carrying him around the room while his boots start a clog. Uncle Bob and the singer ride the music to a place beyond hatred and fear. The knot in my stomach fades.