He occupied an abandoned lighthouse
overlooking the lower bay, a pet gull
lodged in the skeleton of the lantern tower
destroyed by the storm of thirty-three.
This half brother of my mother’s mother
was a crusty waterman with a grey beard,
bright eyes, a weathered hide, and no
right arm, which he said was not a handicap
because he could still land a great sea bass
with his missing arm tied behind him.
When I was twelve, Uncle Roy claimed
a shark seized his arm the day his small boat
capsized chasing a school of blues
at the mouth of Chesapeake bay.
Five years later, with three fingers of Old Grand Dad
secured in his left fist, he introduced me
to the Saturday night side of my education,
told me he lost the arm when his horse stumbled
and fell on him at San Juan Hill, that he took a saber
wound for Teddy Roosevelt, and said that was why
he limped on those late cold nights.
I reminded him of the shark,
and Uncle Roy grinned and told me,
while tamping tobacco into his pipe with the thumb
of his available hand, that I should reel in
my imagination or write a book of tall tales and get it
published by Knopf and maybe win the Pulitzer,
and I said that might take a week or two.
Uncle Roy died
while I was winning a war in the Pacific.
Mother sent me the Crabtown Daily Press
which related my great uncle’s sanitized life
in two four-inch columns of newsprint,
informing me he was born in eighteen seventy-nine,
minus his right arm,
and mother said he left me a ten-dollar gold piece
he said he won playing nine holes
with Bobby Jones.
That was probably the year I was three
and learned to quote the entire fillet of a fenny snake
in the cauldron boil and bake speech
from the witches brew in Act Four,
Scene One of Macbeth.
Some folks said there was a lot
of Great Uncle Roy in me.
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the beauty in this is palpable; like something, in my mind, out of east of eden. .. . a resurrection of not only a visage, but of a voice, a votif of purest light casting the longest and most attached shadows.. .
you have a velvet mind and a lionheart; did you get that from him too? that stanza about Macbeth. . .. dangit.
you amke me want to be a better writer. [or is it your Uncle Roy that does so?]
nessa
Be always safe,
Karen
Cryssa
Ya roped me in there, Gene. Awesome write. --Charlie
Newfie Hugs, Rose
John
One time at Jump River Rose's place, watching the bear cub on a leash, he called out, "Hey Rosy, a drink for my nephew, Ron. He must have known her well. We don't know what happened to his grandfather's Civil War cane.
Your story sure resonated with me. We are both proud of our Uncle Roy's.
Ron
Sandie Angel :o)
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
gem from your pen! Thanks for sharing!
Love,
ET
I would have loved to meet this crusty old seaman. A teller of tales, the beginnings of your own imaginative journeys...well done.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Your Uncle Roy would have been proud of this one. =]