My Uncle's Family - Chapter 1

Now Playing: Fiction
Topic: The Rest of the '90's



Towards the back of my memory, the lawnmower buzzed like a fly with attitude.

I was pulling in the driveway, Zelda sputtering like only the VW vans of the 60’s can, when the memory hit. The ’69 bus may have set it off, or maybe it was just the time, place and smell, but the memory hit hard and fast. That’s the thing about certain styles of vehicle, though – some just tend to evoke memories. That tan (at least I think she was tan; after five years of ownership, that’s the closest guesstimate I could come up with) had noises, smells and vibrations that could heat up any brain, bringing memories to a boil. Boiling brains, boiling butts – my mind was stuck with heat. That’s the one thing that worked well with her, those heaters, though even that’s a bit of an exaggeration. The heater tended to roast your ass while the rest of you freezes… if it’s cold out. If it’s not – well, let’s just say that that she was so proud of her heater, she never wanted to turn it off.

She was a good car for one as mechanically-impaired as I. Of course, she was also a good place to crash for one as, shall we say, employment-impaired, too. Zel saw me through two years of college, and another three on the road through Central and South America, so I tend to think of her more as a temperamental traveling companion than a vehicle.

Onward.

The heater was doing its heating thing, and I was grateful for any joule of warmth I could dredge up in those near-blizzard conditions. It was winter in northern Oklahoma, with Christmas coming around again, invading the lives of just about every person in the US, regardless of religious affiliation or belief (or non-belief). It was once again taking center stage in the wet-dreams of all marketers, and the plastic credit nightmares of all families. I somehow found myself landing in the midst of it all, arriving at The Family’s celebration for the first time in many a moon. It had become Tradition for us to gather at my uncle’s place for the holiday week, and after three years on the road, I’d finally managed to return.

Barely.

The last time I’d seen Unc’s Fam (and though we all knew he had nothing to do with the actual running of the family, that was how it was known) was the summer before my junior year. I was a big shot going to college in California – though the fact that the California State University in Humbolt wasn’t quite Stanford, Cal or UCLA seemed to mar that little triumph. Can I help it if it’s know more for it’s recreational agricultural products than its academics? Five years ago, as the car pulled away, I’d heard the familiar sound of the riding lawnmower as it choked to life. It was such a familiar sight, such a worn in sound that I could call up that mind movie in an instant.

Five years later, in the middle of that winter, I could almost see Uncle Vin obsessively looking over his slight paunch, a paunch that was due south of his coarse, hairy barrelchest. He would watch those blades of renegade grass, those stalks that dared grow more than a ¼”, tumbled beneath his modern reaper’s scythe.

It wasn’t just a weekly chore for Unc – it was personal.

He and my aunt lived in a place I can only describe as pre-rural. They were far enough away from any suburbs so as not to really be affiliated with them, yet too close to be considered rural. Whatever you called it, they owned seven acres of it and called it home. The place had a surprisingly large variety of terrain – a little hillside with a child’s perfect magical creek drifting by its feet, a forest leading off the north side and a grassy plain flowing across the south. Their house hunkered down on the bulldozed flat top of the hill, dead center in the middle of two acres. Two small acres. Two small acres that had to be groomed to perfection by Vin – he’d get out there just about daily if Aunt Seen would let him. It’s one of the few things I’d ever witnessed her putting her foot down about, and being there made me realize who really ran the relationship.

A person tends to let Francine’s four-foot eleven frame and gentle manner fool them: Seen’s sweet and kind and gentle and tolerant and patient and an all around wonderful person and and and… and she’s got a tough streak that would any high security prison warden would love to be able to boast about. She doesn’t take a stand on much cuz she’s so easy going, but when she does – look out.

“Vin, hon, would you please turn off that lawn mower? I’ve a bit of a headache today… and you just mowed two days ago.” Seen’s angelic Franc face (albeit with a huge honker of a regal Franch nose) lit up as the words slipped gently out of her mouth the summer I’d turned ten.

Vin belched, then proceeded in performing one of his elaborate, world-famous crotch scratches. I think he may have won a medal for it somewhere in some Olympic exhibition game, something like the 3 Minute Totally Oblivious Groinal Grate (medals being awarded for best technique). I’m pretty sure it was one of those sports that ranked right up there with water ballet, using the term “sport” in the loosest possible context.

“Yeah Francie, in a sec,” he mumbled in his gravelly, staccato-bass voice. I’ve never understood how a man can put so much volume into his utterances, yet, still have it come out as a mumble. “I’m just about finished up here. Could you grab me a beer?”

Now, from the two tire swings where my cuz and I were playing, even we could tell that this was not the proper response to that particular inquiry. Tony and I rapidly glanced at one another, then back to the impending fray, our eyebrows arched in equally furry surprise and our mouths drying out in the mid-day heat. The feeling of an imminent explosion loomed before us, palpable in the thick air. It was an exact replica of a phenomenon of nature: the heat rises, the humidity, taking the heat index to new heights, causes lungs to overwork and black clouds gather ominously on the horizon. You can always tell when an Oklahoma storm is about to hit.

Yet some people just never learn to read the signs.

The smile was fading from Aunt Seen’s face, a shadow forming that had nothing to do with her aquiline nose. “Vincent, didn’t we just talk about this two weeks ago?” The gentleness was waning, too. “You promised me that you wouldn’t mow more than twice a week in the spring, and once a week in the summer, didn’t you…dear? I thought we’d decided that we didn’t need to do it quite so often?”


This, like much of what I'm inputting, is a work of fiction, though like all fiction, I suppose there are some similarities to life... first draft written in the mid 90's, this one, not so sure when. earthwulf