My Uncle Harold
Warning. The following may reference Christianity.
Uncle Harold was one of my more unusual relatives. He was
married to one of my dad's sisters and was quite a character in more
ways than one.
First of all, you never wanted to get into a car with Uncle
Harold when he was the driver. The man was right down dangerous.
Fortunately, he did most of his driving in Wichita, Kansas where he
lived. I well remember, however, the few times he came to Iowa on
vacations to visit.
After church one Sunday, I wanted to ride with my cousins back to
the house. We had taken two cars because there just wasn't enough
room for all to ride in one car. Since my cousins would be in Uncle
Harold's car, I had to ride with him. There was not a single time
riding with Uncle Harold that something didn't happen and this time
would be no different. Most of the way home from church was on a new
four lane road divided by a hump back concrete medium. The medium was
not made to drive over but it was possible to do so. Driving over it,
however, could easily do undercarriage damage to the car and you risk
the possibility of getting high centered as well.
Sitting at the intersection, I knew what was about to happen.
Back in those days, however, children were taught to be quiet and
never to advise an adult about anything. So I watched, without any
surprise, as Uncle Harold pulled out and began driving down the wrong
side of the highway. The car exploded with shouting and yelling and
everything, but cursing, from everybody including the kids. Uncle
Harold was doing his share of yelling when he realized all the yelling
was directed toward him and his driving. "Get over on to the other
side," his wife, Aunt Elsie yelled, who wasn't one bit better at
driving than her husband. Uncle Harold was yelling something about
what a terrible way of building a highway and how stupid it was to
construct the road in such a ridiculous manner. Everyone, by this
time, was yelling for him to get over to the other side before we got
killed. So he did. Yep, he jerked the wheel to the right and drove
right over the concrete medium. There was a lot of bumping and
grinding and scraping and screeching as metal and concrete ground
together and the car tilted precariously as Uncle Harold was
determined to manhandle the car over the obstacle come hell or high
water. As the car slid over, everyone slid to one side of the car and
then back again as the wheels bounced down on the other side of the
medium. It was a miracle he hadn't ripped the oil pan right off.
Finally the yelling subsided and nothing could be heard but the
children snickering in the back seat and Aunt Elsie and Uncle Harold
arguing in the front seat. Uncle Harold was still convinced they had
constructed the highway incorrectly and he was saying so in a very
loud manner.
Another time I recall riding with Uncle Harold was in Wichita.
It was raining so hard, you could hardly see the end of the car.
Uncle Harold was driving incredibly slow but it was probably because
he couldn't see where he was going in the first place. Hearing a car
splashing its way through the street behind us, which was now almost a
lake, I glanced over to see him pass us on the outside lane. He
wasn't speeding but was minding his own business. All of the sudden,
Uncle Harold began yelling and honking his horn and flashing his
lights at the passing car. Aunt Elsie asked him what in the world was
wrong? Uncle Harold said, "Why, because he is passing me on the wrong
side of the road, that's what's wrong." Of course, no one bothered to
tell Uncle Harold that the man couldn't have passed him on the other
side of the street and the reason no one told him? Because Uncle
Harold was never wrong.
Another mode of transportation you were crazy to use when Uncle
Harold was around was a boat. Unfortunately, Uncle Harold loved to
fish but fishing with this man in the same boat was absolutely nothing
short of life threatening. The first story I heard about Uncle Harold
and a boat occurred before I was born.
My dad and mom when with Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie to Canada.
My oldest sister was probably about 8 years old and remembers it quite
well. She said they were fishing in a huge lake. My sister couldn't
swim, by the way, so she was already a little apprehensive about being
in the boat.
Suddenly, Uncle Harold had a strike. He was reeling for all he
was worth but the Canadian fish was smarter than Uncle Harold judge
him to be. Reversing his underwater course, he swam right under the
boat. Uncle Harold was furious when he saw his line pass under the
boat. Leaping to his feet, Uncle Harold began yelling at the fish and
leaning far out over the edge of the boat to try and see where the
fish had gone. My sister grabbed and held on as my Uncle Fred,
normally the meekness man you would ever meet, was yelling at the top
of his lungs at Harold to get back in his seat because he was going to
capsize the boat. My sister said she watch the water coming up the
side of the boat which she was seated on until it was only an inch
from the edge before Uncle Harold, snorting and bellowing, sat back
down. The fish was lost but the occupants of the boat were saved.
One day, my Uncle Fred, Uncle Harold, and I pulled the fishing
boat out to the lake and launched it. We motored out to our favorite
spot, bated up and settled in for a comfortable afternoon of fishing.
Not with Uncle Harold it wouldn't be.
Uncle Harold had an unusual way of fishing. His casting was
always wild and if you didn't keep your eye on him ever second, you
were likely to get hooked in the back of the head, knocked overboard
by a wildly swinging oar, have a foot crushed by the anchor he was
trying to toss over the side, or have your favorite fishing cap
whisked off your head by a swinging fishing rod. Oh, yes. You best
know how to swim real well, too, if you plan on being in a boat with
Uncle Harold.
Uncle Harold would reel in and cast out more than I did even as a
10 year old kid. In the earlier days, with the open string reels, he
was forever getting backlashes and spending more of his time
untangling his line in the reel than he did fishing. Once they came
out with newer reels, he was in hog heaven with all that casting and
reeling.
One of his favorite things to do was to eyeball his bobber as if
it were a living thing. If there was the slightest of movement by the
bobber, Uncle Harold would jerk backward on his rod, while he
frantically began reeling, as if he had a 200 pound ocean leaping
sailfish hooked on the other end. As I said, this was a common
practice by Uncle Harold. Thus it is, I used to love watching Uncle
Harold bobber instead of my own.
As we were fishing this particular day, I saw his bobber bounce
once ever so slightly. Uncle Harold gave a mighty jerk on his pole in
hopes of snagging what he thought might have been a fish nibbling at
his line. He jerked the pole so hard, however, it loosened his reel
and the second he began frantically reeling, the reel fell off the rod
and began rolling around in the bottom of the boat along with all the
rest of our fishing and boat gear; nylon string unraveling all along
the way. Uncle Harold immediately dove head first for his reel. He
was yelling and thrashing around in the bottom of the boat trying to
locate his reel because he knew he had a whale on the other end of his
line. A good fifteen minutes passed before he was able to reassemble
his gear and reel in his line. He had jerked his pole so hard, there
wasn't even so much as a worm left on his hook. Of course, Uncle
Harold believed a wily fish had suck his worm right off and it had
nothing to do with the way he always jerked his pole.
This same day of fishing with Uncle Harold is one I will never
forget. When Uncle Fred and I fished together in his boat, we always
took it easy and if we didn't catch anything with an hour or so, we'd
motor in to shore and go out to eat lunch or we would just buy a
bottle of pop in order to get out of the hot sun for awhile. Uncle
Harold, on the other hand, took fishing much more seriously than that.
The way to fish, as far as he was concerned, was to get in the boat
and stay in the boat until it was time to leave. That was generally
when you were so sunburned you could not be recognized as a member of
the human race, when every square inch of skin itched from hundreds of
mosquito bites, and when it was so dark, you couldn't see your hand in
front of your face. There was an exception to his rules of fishing,
however, and that was when Uncle Harold had to use the bathroom and
then we had to go right in to shore.
Uncle Fred and I got to taking a big three gallon bucket with us
when we fished. We would fill it with lake water and all the fish we
caught, we put into the bucket. The lake had lots of snapping turtles
so we had learned the hard way by threading our fish on a stringer and
hanging them over the side of the boat. There is nothing more
disappointing to a fisherman than pulling up your string at the end of
a good day of fishing, only to discover the turtles have eaten all but
the heads of your fish.
We caught several fish this particular day and the bucket was
full and situated in the middle of the bottom of the boat. Uncle
Harold was seated in the middle of the boat, I was at the front, and
Uncle Fred was back by the motor. Catching a bluegill, I unhooked it
and not wanting to risk striking Uncle Harold with my fish by tossing
it passed him and trying to hit the bucket, I held out my fish to him
and very politely said, "Uncle Harold, would you mind putting my fish
in the bucket for me, please?" He took one look at me and one look at
the slimy fish and turned around and glanced down at the bucket which
was immediately behind him. Without laying down his pole, he reached
back for the bucket of fish. There must have been a good twenty fish
in the bucket of water. Water is supposed to weigh something like
eight pounds per gallon so just the weight of the water alone, not
including the weight of the bucket itself and the fish, was at least
24 pounds. Did I mention Uncle Harold wasn't a very large or tall
man? He was actually quite scrawny. Fear gripped me when I realized
what my crazy uncle was about to do. Seizing the metal handle of the
bucket, Uncle Harold began to lift. Yes, indeed. He was going to
lift that heavy bucket of fish situated behind him and swing it over
the seat upon which he sat in order to get the bucket out in front of
him. I knew it was never meant to be. I let my eyes drop to Uncle
Harold's feet as I heard him straining to get the bucket off the
bottom of the boat. Jerking his pole, as you recall, was his way of
snagging nibbling fish and this was the same technique he employed in
order to get the heavy bucket of water and fish free from the bottom
of the boat. He gave a mighty tugged, at first, and I saw his feet
rise from the bottom of the boat about an inch. I wanted to say
something to him but as I said, in those days, we were taught never to
give advice to our elders. So I watched in helpless fascination as my
poor Uncle Harold jerked and tugged at the heavy bucket of water. His
feet rose higher and higher. I prayed silently it wouldn't happen but
it did. Since the bucket of water was not rising faster than Uncle
Harold's feet, you can guess the rest. I should, in retrospect, have
reached out and grabbed Uncle Harold's feet as they rose faster and
faster from the bottom of the boat but I found it impossible to
believe anybody, in their right mind, would have attempted such an
amazing feat of strength. When Uncle Harold's feet got about as high
as my head, he went over backwards into the bucket of fish, rolled
over sideways, and began thrashing around violently in the bottom of
the boat; trying to gain his balance. The boat rocked and reeled
dangerously from the desperate acrobatics of the desperate man. I
tried, I really did, my best not even to smile but it was simply
impossible. I laughed so hard at what I had just witnessed, I nearly
fell out of the boat. I watched my uncle regain his composure to the
point he was able to climb back on to his seat. No words passed
between us as, this time, he took the fish from my trembling hand and
tossed it into the bucket. The show was far from over and I knew it
was retribution time for me. There would be a big price to pay for my
disrespectful burst of childhood laughter. It wasn't long in coming
either.
I watched Uncle Harold straighten his hat upon his head, silently
bate his hook, adjust his sinker and bobber, and cast out. Soon he
had a nice bluegill on the line and, uncharacteristically for him, he
quietly reeled in his catch. Holding the fish high above the water at
the end of his line, he began to swing his pole in my direction. I
knew it was coming but couldn't do much to avoid the inevitable. When
the wet wriggling fish smacked me up side the head, Uncle Harold
calmly said, "Why, Phil. Would you mind removing the fish from the
hook for me." I did as he requested and handed him the fish. Nothing
was said and finally the day was over and no one had been killed or
drown. A small blessing of the Lord.
Many years later, after I was married and had children of my own,
my mom asked me to go with her to a family reunion. We drove from
Denver to Kingman, Kansas and my youngest sister came along. It was
fun seeing all of our cousins and aunts and uncles we hadn't seen for
all those years. Before leaving town, however, mom felt it important
that we stop by and visit our dad's relatives before leaving the areas
so we drove over to Wichita and made the rounds.
On the way to Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie's home, I told my
sister and mom the story I have just told. I explained to them that
Uncle Harold would, in fact, bring up this memorable event and I told
them exactly how he would say it, too.
"Why, Phil. Do you recollect that time you and me and your Uncle
Freddy went a-fishin his boat and I fell backwards into the bottom of
the boat?"
"Yes, Uncle Harold," I would reply, "I remember."
"And," he would continue as if he hadn't heard me, "do you
remember how I got back at you by smacking you upside the head with my
fish at the end of my line?"
"Yes, Uncle Harold, I remember," I would reply.
He would then laugh and slap his knee and say, "Boy, that was a
good one, wasn't it Phil?"
"Yes, Uncle Harold," I would reply, "it was a good one."
Until my Uncle Harold died, this story was always told by him and how
he got back at me. He brought it up every single time I saw him.
My Uncle Fred sold his home on the edge of Wichita when he was 82
years old and moved to Denver to live with my family. Sandy and I had
three children at the time and for nine years, Uncle Fred was like a
father and a grandfather to us all. Once, during those nine years and
to my amazement, Aunt Elsie and Uncle Harold flew on an airplane to
Denver and spent a week with us in Denver. They were in their late
seventies and had never been on an airplane in their life. It was
sort of funny because Uncle Harold worked for Bowing all his life in
Wichita. Anyhow, that week Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie stayed with us
in our home was the most unusual week of probably my entire life
because I came to know my Uncle Harold in a way I never dreamed
possible. So let me tell you about that week.
By this time, my Uncle Fred no longer drove, which, in and of
itself was a good thing, but Uncle Fred wanted his sister and brother-
in-law to see some of the Colorado sights. My oldest sister drove
them to a car rental place and they rented a nice car. Later, my
oldest sister told me how Uncle Harold talked to anybody and everybody
he saw as if they were neighbors and before his conversation had
hardly begun, Uncle Harold would be quoting Bible verses to them.
This was a character trait I had noticed about Uncle Harold when I was
very young. He was always saying, "It's just like the Bible says,"
and then he would quote Scripture. He didn't do this just
occasionally, he did it all the time. It didn't matter whom he was
speaking with or where they were at the time, nor did it make any
difference what the discussion was about; Uncle Harold always had a
Bible verse for every situation no matter what.
As a child, I well remember Uncle Harold, and other relatives,
seated in the living room and discussing the Bible with my father.
Often, as I would drop to my belly and edge up behind the bookshelves
in order to hear better, the discussions became quiet heated but Uncle
Harold would always slap his knee and laugh and say, "Why, Willie, I
just cannot agree with you there. Why, I have never heard anybody say
that's what the Bible meant by that."
Uncle Harold could sing and play the accordion. Not well, but he
could sing and play. During his visits to our home in Iowa, I often
would catch him in the backyard, seated on our picnic table, playing
the accordion he had borrowed from my sisters, and singing hymns to
himself. I would stand high above him, looking down from my bedroom
window, and listen to him without his knowledge of my presence.
Somehow, I appreciated what I saw and heard in Uncle Harold when he
was alone singing and playing for his own enjoyment. In my heart, I
know he really loved the Lord with all his heart and that he was
really singing and playing to the Lord.
During the week he and his wife stayed with us in our home, Uncle
Harold would come upstairs to sit and visit with me. Since my father
had passed away when I was eleven, I had not heard Uncle Harold
debating the bible with anyone. I never told him but I secretly
wished, when I grew up, we could continue those Biblical discussions
that he and my dad used to have and so it was. In my freshman year of
Bible college, I had an occasion to visit Uncle Harold. Knowing I was
a Bible college student, he immediately struck up a conversation about
the Bible with me that day. I know now he was just testing my
Biblical knowledge but back then, being the Biblical scholar that I
was, I was proud to debate him. That old man likely knew more of the
Bible than I will ever know because he had learn how to live what he
believed. That is true Christianity.
One afternoon, Uncle Harold came upstairs during his vacation to
visit with me in the living room once again. He began to tell me
stories about when he was a boy and I discovered he came from a very
poor family. For the most part, Uncle Harold had done quite well for
himself and his family as he grew older. He told me about the time he
became a born again Christian. My favorite story was about the
elephant.
Uncle Harold went to the zoo and stood and watched people feeding
the elephants. They would put nickels into a peanut machine and
gather a handful of peanuts, he said, and feed them to the big animals
through the fence. Uncle Harold said he waited until the crowd moved
away before he walked over to the fence. He waited till no one was
around because I knew Uncle Harold wouldn't have paid five cents for
peanuts to feed an elephant and he wouldn't have wanted others to see
his penny pinching behavior. He told me that one of the elephants
began pawing at the ground and making noises as if he perhaps wanted
more peanuts. Uncle Harold then announced that he wouldn't have paid
any five cents to feed an elephant so he just kept watching them.
suddenly, Uncle Harold said, the large animal dropped his trunk to the
ground, sucked up a trunk full of dry dust, and flew it through the
fence all over Uncle Harold; covering him head to toe with dust and
elephant spit. I can hear Uncle Harold laughing about it now and
saying, "Why, Phil, can you believe an elephant would do such a thing?
Why, in all my born days, I never would have dreamed an elephant could
do such a thing. Can you?" And so it went for the afternoon. Story
after story and after each one, he would say, "It's just like the
Bible says," and he would quote Scripture.
My all time favorite story Uncle Harold told me, more than once,
was about their blind neighbor. The man farmed by himself.
"Yes, sir, he surely was. Why, this man was nothing short of
amazing. Of course, we and my family went over and helped the blind
man when he harvested his apples but otherwise, this here old boy
farmed all by his lonesome. He owned a horse. He surely did. When
the man would have to go out at night, he'd take the horse. Yes he
did. And do you know what? This here man would walk down the lane
carrying a lantern as he led his horse."
"What did he need the lantern for, Uncle Harold?" I made the
mistake of asking more than once.
"Why it's plain to see. The light was so the horse could see
where he was going because the man, he was blind and he didn't need no
light to see where he was going."
Uncle Harold has been dead for many years. His wife died first.
My cousin, Uncle Harold's oldest son, called and told me when she
passed away and told me what Aunt Elsie said to her husband on her
death bed. She was blessed to have her entire family nearby when she
began to die and so they all came to the hospital. They stood around
her bed and she spoke to each one of them. Aunt Elsie was one of the
finest Christian women I ever knew and I loved going to see her
because she loved children. When she finally spoke to each of her
children and grandchildren, she came to her husband. She said, "Well,
Harold. Are you going to behave yourself when I'm gone?"
When Uncle Harold passed away, his son called and told me. I
told him how much his dad really meant to me and that I was actually
proud to have known him. Johnny knew the nature of his dad and we
laughed together as we swapped stories. We both agreed, however,
Uncle Harold truly loved the Lord more than anything in his life.
I honestly miss Uncle Harold after all these years but I thank
God for his testimony and his love for God and the Bible which he
quoted so often. He was a greater example of a man who lived what he
believed and practiced what he preached than most Christians I know
today. Uncle Harold is in Heaven now with Uncle Fred, Aunt Elsie, my
dad, and now my mom. Knowing Uncle Harold as I do, he is probably
trying to change the Lord's mind on something he doesn't quite agree
on, too. Lord, make me like Uncle Harold but you best keep him away
from cars and boats and fishing rods there in Heaven.
end Of File
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