My Uncle Pleak
Saturday, May 27, 2006
"Peace is not only better than war, but infinitely more arduous."
----
George Bernard Shaw
In doing some rearranging through my newly inherited house, I found a flag. It was an American flag that was folded in the manner of a flag that was once draped over a soldier’s casket.
I had to believe that it was my Uncle Pleak’s casket that was covered by this flag. He was a World War I veteran. I was too young to really appreciate his contribution to the war. I will honor this weekend to his memory.
At the time I knew him, he was aging. I will say this: he was a military man. My uncle did not own clothes that were not his own army gear. I’ve never seen him out of the basic olive green uniform, army steel-toe boots, and, on occasion, his army cap. Next to my father, he was the epitome of man. He had shocking white hair atop his thin, cocoa-toned frame. His hair was always unforgettable. His nose was shaped like an eagle’s beak between huge, round eyes whose lids covered them. His soft-spoken voice passed through thin lips that also held his hand-made cigarettes. He had a smoky smell on him that was of cigar tobacco that tickled my nose whenever I was near him.
One of the things I loved about him was his hair. It was so wavy and so beautiful to me. I loved when it grew out; the curls began to show like a crown of miniature roses. But my uncle hated it. He would have his hair cut on a regular basis if he did nothing else.
My mama or my grandmother would cook for him every single day for lunch. I’m not even sure why or when this ritual started, but when that man backed out of his driveway in his black, white, and red pin-striped, 1980-ish model GMC truck, his food needed to be done. We would see his house from our kitchen window. Uncle Pleak would drive the half block down his street then turn left. He would turn into our carport that was about ten feet from the corner. Uncle Pleak would be parked and he would be in his chair at the end of the table at noon. We could set our clocks to his tapping at the door.
He was a sweet man who had no children. I felt like he was a grandfather to me. I will say one of my favorite things about him was the way he talked. About five miles out of town down the local highway was a “bar.” I’d never been inside, but it was a hole in the wall and a cave outside itself. My uncle’s vices were tobacco and alcohol. That man bled whiskey with a dash of blood. He needed his liquor as much as he needed his breakfast and lunch. Every time I think about having something to drink, I can hear him say, “I need a little thwig.” His swigs of hard liquor were his demise. He had a stroke, which stopped him from having independence, but didn’t stop him from knowing when his hair past army regulation length. We would know from when he rubbed his head. He would vigorously push his hand back and forth with an inaudible sound. We had to get his hair cut immediately.
My uncle passed away in his home. We did not know for about a day because nobody had seen him. Finally, ambulances came to the rescue that night. I remember running so fast to his house that my shoes quickly fell off. I ran into his house and found him in his long johns.
A picture of him on a makeshift portrait site of a ship he was on is on my wall in my living room.
His flag is prominently shown, folded, on a stand now as a remembrance of him.
Thank you, soldiers, who have lost their lives by defending the very thing other countries dream of, people stand for, die for, and we live for.
Thank you, soldiers, who are living their lives for our livelihood. God bless you.
----
George Bernard Shaw
In doing some rearranging through my newly inherited house, I found a flag. It was an American flag that was folded in the manner of a flag that was once draped over a soldier’s casket.
I had to believe that it was my Uncle Pleak’s casket that was covered by this flag. He was a World War I veteran. I was too young to really appreciate his contribution to the war. I will honor this weekend to his memory.
At the time I knew him, he was aging. I will say this: he was a military man. My uncle did not own clothes that were not his own army gear. I’ve never seen him out of the basic olive green uniform, army steel-toe boots, and, on occasion, his army cap. Next to my father, he was the epitome of man. He had shocking white hair atop his thin, cocoa-toned frame. His hair was always unforgettable. His nose was shaped like an eagle’s beak between huge, round eyes whose lids covered them. His soft-spoken voice passed through thin lips that also held his hand-made cigarettes. He had a smoky smell on him that was of cigar tobacco that tickled my nose whenever I was near him.
One of the things I loved about him was his hair. It was so wavy and so beautiful to me. I loved when it grew out; the curls began to show like a crown of miniature roses. But my uncle hated it. He would have his hair cut on a regular basis if he did nothing else.
My mama or my grandmother would cook for him every single day for lunch. I’m not even sure why or when this ritual started, but when that man backed out of his driveway in his black, white, and red pin-striped, 1980-ish model GMC truck, his food needed to be done. We would see his house from our kitchen window. Uncle Pleak would drive the half block down his street then turn left. He would turn into our carport that was about ten feet from the corner. Uncle Pleak would be parked and he would be in his chair at the end of the table at noon. We could set our clocks to his tapping at the door.
He was a sweet man who had no children. I felt like he was a grandfather to me. I will say one of my favorite things about him was the way he talked. About five miles out of town down the local highway was a “bar.” I’d never been inside, but it was a hole in the wall and a cave outside itself. My uncle’s vices were tobacco and alcohol. That man bled whiskey with a dash of blood. He needed his liquor as much as he needed his breakfast and lunch. Every time I think about having something to drink, I can hear him say, “I need a little thwig.” His swigs of hard liquor were his demise. He had a stroke, which stopped him from having independence, but didn’t stop him from knowing when his hair past army regulation length. We would know from when he rubbed his head. He would vigorously push his hand back and forth with an inaudible sound. We had to get his hair cut immediately.
My uncle passed away in his home. We did not know for about a day because nobody had seen him. Finally, ambulances came to the rescue that night. I remember running so fast to his house that my shoes quickly fell off. I ran into his house and found him in his long johns.
A picture of him on a makeshift portrait site of a ship he was on is on my wall in my living room.
His flag is prominently shown, folded, on a stand now as a remembrance of him.
Thank you, soldiers, who have lost their lives by defending the very thing other countries dream of, people stand for, die for, and we live for.
Thank you, soldiers, who are living their lives for our livelihood. God bless you.
Labels: My Writing, Prose, Thoughts
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