Uncle Jim's House on the River

It was never unusual for my mother, with no warning, to take me and sometimes Momma Laurie my grandmother on an un-announced visit to one of her many sisters or brothers who lived near us. These trips just happened. It would always begin with a “come on, Johnnie, Mommie, get in the car and lets go see…” Neither me nor my grandmother ever questioned nor thought it strange to just go; there was never a warning either to us or those on the receiving end of our visit.
According to some of my friends, other families usually planned such trips and called ahead to see if was convenient. Then, and only then, would they get in the car and go. My mom never bothered with this sort of formality, yet wherever it was we turned up, they were always glad to see us. I’m not sure how this would have worked with people that weren’t our relatives since we never tried it on them as far as I knew. But it worked with all of my relatives and some of my mother’s friends, at least the one’s that lived locally.
My mom’s sister’s name was Georgia. When I pronounced her name, and come to think of it, whenever anyone in our family pronounced it, it always came out as Georgie. Its sort of the same as with Laurie in Momma Laurie. Her name as really Laura, but it always seemed to come out as Laurie. Aunt Georgie was married to Jim. He was also known as big Jim since he had a son by a previous marriage whose name was also Jim and big Jim’s dad was also Jim and his dad before him. So, the family always called his son little Jim. Officially, he was James Franklin Fair III. But, his nickname was another one of these confusing moments for me since big Jim was only about 5”5” tall and little Jim managed to make it 5’11”. I just assumed that ‘big’ and ‘little’ were what they were called so every one else could tell the difference between father and son.
The fact is, my family regularly assigned names to people and I never really took the time to ask why. And, like our un-announced visits, it never seemed strange to me so I never questioned this practice unless a question was just unavoidable. For example, one of my uncles was named Cossie as surname, but everyone called him Shorty. I never got that one. He was about 6’2” tall and so Shorty wasn’t the nickname you would expect. But, someone told me that this was what is called irony. I learned more about that later in school and his name always helped me understand what it meant. Also, my aunt Ronnie (her real name was Veronica, so I suppose no one couldn’t really be bothered to say that every time they greeted her) was married to Bill Pottorf, but everyone called him Red even though his hair was thick, wavy, always neatly combed and most certainly white. I had to ask on that one. Aunt Ronnie told me that when he was younger his hair was flaming red which is where this moniker came from. I would have never been able to guess looking at pictures of him in their apartment since they were all in black and white.
So, with my family, the names seemed to fit and saying them always conjured up whichever character that they belonged to. I think names are like that just because they are connected to a person. They sound like who they belong to, they provide the memories and images of the one the name is connected to. Say the name and you see the smile or hear the laugh or visualise a certain way they sat and what they would say to you and the way they said things or the way they teased you.
Aunt Georgie and uncle Jim – big Jim – lived in a very special house on the little Miami river. I learned that the name Miami is an American Indian word and was the name of a tribe that used to live around Lebanon. There was another river called the big Miami as well. It flowed right in to the Ohio river and was very near to where my aunt Eva lived – and by the way, her husband’s name was Carl, but everyone called him ‘Bud’ and I never understood that one either; but it fit – the river was enormous and I only ever saw it from the bridge we would drive over on the way to Eva’s house. But it was much too big and far too far below that bridge to actually go down to and explore. By the way, Ohio is an Iroquois Indian name that means good river or large river. The little Miami river where big Jim and Georgie lived was not as big as the big Miami, but it seemed very wide to me. When I grew older I canoed it and raced canoes on it as well. It was nearer Lebanon and my uncle Jim and aunt Georgie lived in a house that everyone called the camp. It was right next to the river and you could walk to the edge of the water in just a few steps. When we would go out to visit them, usually in the summer, it seemed to me to be a long way away and would take forever to get there. We would often visit, sometimes with Momma Laurie and sometimes not. Sometimes I would get to stay all night with them.
On one occasion, Momma Laurie was away with aunt Eva and one Friday after work mom and I decided to go and visit aunt Georgie and uncle Jim on the river. Unusually, Mom called ahead and after the call, went to get my pyjamas and other things and I knew that maybe, just maybe I would get to stay the night. This was an exciting prospect and I hoped that this was what they talked about on the phone. We loaded my bag, walked the long sidewalk to the garage, I petted Rebel on the way out, said goodbye, mounted the steps into the car and after opening the heavy car door, practically jumped into the seat. To get to Georgie and Jim’s camp, mom drove east, out Main street - you can probably figure out why the street was called that – all the way to the very end where it left Lebanon. On the way out of town we passed the Stilwell house. I never knew why they called it that, but it was a big, old house built when Lebanon was first around, probably all the way back in the 1700’s. As we passed it my mom told me that at one time long ago it was part of the ‘Underground Railroad’. She explained what that meant. It was a place where people in the north helped slaves and their families who were trying to escape from the south. At first, when my mother told me about this, I also thought it meant there were tracks that came into the house and trains would somehow go underground into the basement of this enormous house and then deposit the runaway slaves. In the school year I had just finished, I asked about this. Mrs. Shrack, my second grade teacher, told me that this was just a name given to it and was something that I would learn about some day called a metaphor. She explained. “Johnnie, were you thinking that there were tracks in this house because the real railroad tracks run just in back of it?”
I knew I had thought that and agreed.
She continued, “Well, in the Stilwell House there aren’t any real railroad tracks. People like the Stilwell family just let it be known to the right people that this was a place where slaves and their helpers could stop and be safe. They would let them rest there, get supplies and sometimes arrange for their next stop by writing letters. The slaves would then go on to the next place which would also be part of the underground railroad. So you see these houses were sort of train stations in their own way and their journey was very much as if you were on a railroad line to a certain destination. Each place was a station of sorts where these slaves stopped a while on their journey to freedom. Yet, and here’s where you really have to try and understand, they weren’t really railroad stations and like the Stilwell House, they were just places where people lived who wanted to help the slaves. So, this is what makes the name a metaphor. Do you see?” When she had finished, she cocked her head just a bit, had her smile ready, stared down at me with her green eyes full of expectation and waited hopefully for my reply. I hesitated for just half a second then it dawned and I said, “Yeah, I do. Thanks Mrs. Schrack.” And I really did. Mrs. Schrack’s explanations were always worth it. And, after her success with me she allowed the awaiting smile to fully engage her gentle face, stood straight up, said, “Good”, and went on to the next pupil who had a question. Her time taken with me worked well and, like the irony of my uncle Shorty’s name, I never forgot what a metaphor was.
The car carried on to the outskirts of town and the area beyond. Business and houses were back there, farms, fields, wooded patches lay ahead. As we travelled past the end of Main street, the road went on and on and eventually grew narrower and narrower, winding its way up and down the hills out towards the river. After what seemed forever, the road forked and we took the left fork. This was fun and I anticipated what was coming; I sat up to watch as the road suddenly lurched down hill and became ever more narrow and ever more winding. Then before we reached the bottom, I saw through the trees and there was the little Miami river. At the spot where I first could see the little Miami, it flowed fast and you could see small white caps briefly appear in succession over the rocks as the water rushed up, hit rock and forced its way on down the stream. I stuck my head out of the windows and even though the wind was in my face, I could hear the water rushing. I loved that sound.
At the bottom of this hill, the road eventually flattened out and we were on the same level as the river. Part of the time, the road was very close to the bank and mom drove very slowly and carefully, allowing me to see between the trees. There was a breeze coming off of the water that worked its way into the hot car and cooled it for just a brief moment, transforming the air and refreshing us. I could see deer by the water drinking and looking over their shoulder with each drink just to make sure they knew who was around. There were birds of all sorts. I could also see someone on the bank fishing and rowing a boat in a calmer part of the river.
The road to the camp eventually meandered inland just a bit. Then, in the thick of the trees, so thick they could hide the brightest summer sun as if someone had turned its light off, we reached the road that led to the camp. Mom turned right and then slowed down a lot more because the road was mainly dirt and full of potholes. The car rocked back and forth as it hit ruts on this dirt path that was barely wide enough for our car. We drove through one clearing with tall grass, then into a thicket of trees – pines, maples, firs, ginko and others, arriving at last at the big clearing right by the river. There was the camp, or more accurately, there were three camps all standing on the river bank just back from the water, all in a row and far enough apart to give whoever lived there some privacy.
Anyone seeing this would know why this place was called the camp. The houses were big square structures built on stilts. The fact that these buildings were in a clearing, in the woods and on the river, made the whole thing look like a holiday cottage someone might escape to. In fact, I believed that the owners of the two other camps only stayed in theirs on weekends. But, for Jim and Georgie, thiers was home.
On the ground level, each of the buildings had a poured concrete area and an enclosed wooden structure that had a small room with a toilet, another small room for storage and a door that led to the stairs. These stairs were enclosed by a clapboard structure and climbed all the way up to the living area of the camp. The upper living area was clad on the outside with clapboard as well and painted white. It had an overlapping roof line that sheltered the whole upstairs. There were large windows on three sides and smaller windows where the kitchen was. Other than the wooden frame in the corners, the roof’s overhang covered the entire area. Each window had wooden framed glass panes that could be opened or completely removed in the summer leaving fine mesh, wire screens to catch the breeze when it was hot. In the summer, Uncle Jim used to store some of the glass windows downstairs in the small room off of the concrete patio. When they were off, it was like camping out in the open in a most marvellous tent.
To me, the camp seemed to climb up towards heaven into the trees. It was always an adventure going up to where they lived and pretending you were living in a real tree-house, up and away from the world below - and safe. Like other summers in South Western Ohio, this one was hot and humid and this Friday was no exception. I could feel the heaviness of the air. When the evening came the humidity seemed to encourage the crickets to break into song all the more. There must have been millions of them and they made an almighty racket, a rhythmic, whistling chorus. One moment that rhythm would be in one place, then move across the clearing or to the other side of the river, then the two cricket choirs would sing antiphonally. This song, bouncing back and forth from one bank to the other always seemed to make the evening feel hotter. But, on this evening a breeze came as our guest and arrived on and off and cooled the air for seconds at a time allowing us some blessed relief.
When we stopped and I got out of the car Jim was already outside. I looked around in hope that his son Jim, little Jim was not with him. I was relieved to discover that he wasn’t. Little Jim could be a bit of trouble for me back then. Mom said that uncle Jim had been married before and that little Jim normally lived with his mother and occasionally visited big Jim on the weekend. When he was there it could be a problem. I was never sure whether little Jim really liked me. He was about four years older than me and mom said that he had a hard time. I used to hear her and Momma Laurie talk. “Well his mother ain’t no count,” mom had said.” “They say she leaves him alone at night while she goes to the Broadway Grill and gets drunk! Ford said he’d seen Jimmy runnin round the streets at night by himself. I haven’t heard he’s been in any trouble, but it’ll happen afore too long if they ain’t careful..” Momma Laurie said one time that the police came by when little Jim’s mom wasn’t home. “They had to go find that woman and bring her home. Now you can’t raise a child like that.”
I’m not sure I was supposed to hear all of this. But, I did and it made me feel sorry for him - most of the time. But mom knew what little Jim was like and she would sometimes say to me if he was there, “now Johnnie, Jimmy’s here and if he gives you any trouble, you just come in or come get me, ok?” I would dutifully answer, “Ok mom, don’t worry.” Whatever feeling I had for his situation was probably because my dad wasn’t around, but my mom was and she never went out drinking. So, I thought, ‘poor little Jim.’ However, the times when I didn’t feel sorry for him was when big Jim wasn’t around. Little Jim would always make sure he knew where big Jim was and then he would pick on me. Sometimes he would snap me with a towel or cloth and sometimes, trip me up or fall on top of me and act like he was wrestling. Other times he said things like, “you are really a nuisance, you know it.” He also bragged a lot, which I hated. Mom told me never to brag, it wasn’t becoming. But, little Jim would often brag. “I’m in a bigger baseball league than you and I have to bat against pitchers that throw much faster. Have you ever hit a home run?”
“No.” I would answer.
He would always get the last word, “well, I have and you better not forget it.” “I won’t,” I would say and always hoped that he would either change the subject or that uncle Jim would come out. When big Jim did come, little Jim would always be nice to me. It always seemed funny to me that during those times, he was really nice and I liked him. He shared and never said anything bad and always tried to include me and never hit me or jumped on top of me. But, on this trip I had none of that to worry about; little Jim wasn’t there.
When we got there Jim greeted us, took a look at me and said immediately, “You want to swim Johnnie?” Mom chimed in immediately as well, ‘Now Jim, don’t you take him near that river he might fall in.” Jim answered, ‘Now Ruth, would I do anything to hurt your little baby.” “I’m not a baby,” I protested, “and anyway, mom, I’m big enough if Jim is with me, can’t I go down by the river?” “No you can’t Johnnie and I better not catch you down there.” Jim then looked back at me, “well it’s the tub for you.”
I knew what he meant and I yelled, ‘Yeah!” The funniest part of the visits in the summer was when uncle Jim got out the galvanised tub. I was much smaller than little Jim and he couldn’t fit in the tub. He did go out on the river with his dad, but since mom would let me, I got to use the tub. Big Jim filled it with water and I went into the downstairs toilet to put on my bathing suit and got in. I felt I could almost swim in there. Big Jim had showed me before how to hold my breath without using my fingers to pinch my nose and told me all about the things to do when I would start swimming. Satisfied, mom had gone upstairs and once gone, Jim said, “You leave your mom to me. Be patient…” He interrupted himself and asked, “do you know that being patient means?” “No,” I answered. Then, looking very much like one of my teachers, he continued. “Well its like when what you want to happen, can’t or doesn’t happen right away; or, you can’t get what you want right away and it seems like it’ll never happen. You have to wait and wait and trust - that means really, really believe that it’ll happen. Then, fore you know, it happens! Know what I mean?”
I did and said so and decided to be patient and enjoy that tub for time being.
As usual, uncle Jim got out the water hose, hooked it up to the spicket and started to spray me. I laughed and screamed in false protest for him to stop. He knew better! After this, he stayed outside for a while and told me some of his jokes or funny stories. “Chief rain in the puss”. One of my favourite Three Stooges movies had a character called Chief rain in the puss but Jim’s story was different. Still, I always suspected he got the name from them, but I didn’t care. It was my favourite story and though I can’t remember it all now, when he told it I would start laughing and laughing though I had heard it, by request, over and over again. Jim would start laughing himself.
Uncle Jim was a short man with dark, whispy hair and a receding hairline. He was not fat but he was stocky and had a barrel chest. He had a little round, cherubic face with not excessively floppy jowls but they were apparent when he laughed. And, Jim’s laugh was hearty, one of those from deep within. His breath drew inward. The sound that emerged was a high pitched but tuneful and rhythmic wheezing which eventually resolved itself, ending in a relaxed, “Aaaaahhh.” I loved to hear him laugh and would do things that I knew amused him, just to get him going. It was a sight to behold.
We talked for a while after the stories, about all kinds of things. Uncle Jim told me about his dad. He worked on a farm in south western Ohio, where he hand picked crops. Jim said he had problems with his eyes, something that was called cataracts. He told me that cataracts were things that happened to your eyes that made them be like a really dirty window, one that was so dirty you couldn’t see out of it. “They grow over your eyes and eventually can make you blind,” he explained. “My dad didn’t know what they were and where we lived no one else did either. So he never got any help. They just got worse and worse, and my dad was never one to complain about anything, he just said that his eyes weren’t what they used to be. Then one day,” now uncle Jim looked very serious and paused, “one day while he was in the fields, he just stopped, stood up straight and yelled for mother to come and help him. And Johnnie” - he stood so he could act out the scene - “I didn’t know what was goin on. He just stood up, stopped working. Mother was real scared and she seemed to know what had happened. She ran out to him…and that was that. He was never able to see again.”
Jim said this with a quiet resolve, staring outward and away from me. After a bit, he reconnected with my face and then continued with the tone he used when he wanted to teach me something, like when he spoke of patience, “He had cataracts just like me.” Jim then turned back to me. “But I’m blest in a way my dad never was or could be. Nowadays they can take cataracts off your eyes, but its not an easy operation.”
“Does that mean you won’t go blind uncle Jim? I asked.
“I shouldn’t but, I’ll have to wear contact lenses for the rest of my life.” “What are contact lenses?” “They’re like tiny glasses that fit right onto your eyes.“ As he said this, he knelt down to the tub again and used his thumb and first finger to show me just how small they were, “and they take the place of your eye lenses. They’ll have to remove my lenses to get the cataracts off.”
“Do all eyes have lenses? Do my eyes have a lenses?” I was imagining big magnifying glasses on your eyes.
“Yes, they do and mine will have to go if I am not to go blind; and I tell you what Johnnie, I’m not gonna go blind if I can help it.”
I was glad. I did not want Jim to go blind and I said so. “Well that’s good uncle Jim, cause then you wouldn’t be able to play guitar or row the boat on the river.” Uncle Jim looked down at me in the tub and got himself into one of his teaching postures - feet shoulder width apart, leaning a bit forward, head slightly down and forward and slightly cocked to the right. “Well, Johnnie, the interesting thing is that I probably would be able to play the guitar still. Have you ever heard of Doc Watson?” I looked up at the roof of the patio area and really thought, then said, “no, I don’t think so.” “He’s one of the best guitar players you’ve ever heard and he sings as well. And, you know what?”
“What?”
“He’s blind and has been since he’s a boy. He even learned to play being blind. So, I could go on playing if I had to. But hopefully, I won’t have to.”
“I hope so to.”
That conversation ended there. Jim picked up the hose and started spraying me again. I laughed! He laughed! And it seemed that if we kept on there would be an almighty earthquake!
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Though I loved to stay the night at the camp, it was never an easy decision for my mom to leave me, but somehow they talked her into it. She always looked a bit worried leaving me and this made me feel a bit guilty but I was always happy to be there. This made for a bit of a strange evening inside my stomach and a relief when she arrived in the morning that the strangeness would end. But the in between times made the confusion worth it.
In between Jim and Georgie’s camp and the one next door and on away from the road, there was a big place to grill made out of bricks. Georgie made potato salad and baked beans and Jim put hamburgers and chicken on the grill. Earlier in the day Jim had found some sweet corn at a roadside stand and he put this on the grill with the hamburgers and chicken. This too was cooked in tin foil on the grill and I always looked forward to the butter and salt I put on it and to tasting the occasionally charred kernels. Aunt Georgie said we would have some ice cream for dessert later on.
After dinner and as the sun was starting to set, we went inside. There were no outside lights except those from inside the camps themselves and the porch lights in the lower concrete bays. The trees there were thick enough that as the sun set, darkness came in a way that you could almost feel. The door leading up to the living area was open and the light was on. Georgie and Jim had taken all the dishes in. She called to me to come in.
I lingered just far enough away from the lit stairwell to pretend as if I was being a bit adventurous, but never far enough away to feel afraid I would not make it back to there and into the safety of the stairwell before the sky darkened. To make sure she didn’t worry, I called up, “I’ll be right there in just a second.”
“Don’t stay too long hon, its getting dark,”
“I won’t, don’t worry”
And, I didn’t plan on staying long, but just long enough to let the enfolding darkness work its magic. I loved to walk, slowly, ever so slowly towards the door, watching the road in the distance disappear, watching the trees turn to apparitions swaying gently as the breeze blew, always keeping the lit stairwell in sight to guide me to a safe place. I pretended I was coming in from some great adventure in the wilderness and had reached safe haven at last. I calculated just how much longer I could linger before reaching the stairs. Then, when I knew the time had come, I took one more look around, one more look, then another, and then, deliberately and with great satisfaction, finished the journey, turning around as I reached the door to capture one more glimpse of this lonely but beautiful sight, taking it in as if I would never see it again. Then, I entered the stairwell, peered out one more time and closed the door. I was in. I was safe. A new adventure awaited upstairs.
Upon climbing up to the top door, I opened it to reveal the upper floor of the camp. I stepped inside the large, square room. There was aunt Georgie in the tiny galley kitchen on the one side of the room. She looked down at me with a smile.
“Whew, I’m glad your in! Its getting a bit dark out there for little boys. Want some ice cream.”
“Yeah!!” I said and went to their sofa and plopped myself down on the end, leaning against the high side. The cushions were just hard enough to support me, but just soft enough to be very comfortable. Uncle Jim was coming out of the room in the far corner, a very small room that was their bedroom. He was carrying his fiddle and his guitar. This was the part that I really liked. He carefully placed the instruments, the fiddle on the kitchen table and the guitar up against one of the empty chairs.
We ate our ice cream and talked. Uncle Jim, of course, told stories and we laughed. Georgie asked how Momma Laurie was and how the Decker’s were that lived downstairs from us. “Mom says that Mr. and Mrs. Decker are going to move.”
“Really!?”
“Yep, somewhere, I think mom said to a house in Ridgeville.”
“Really?
“Yep. It’s a lot bigger and Mom said that she would be sorry for them to go, but that we would go visit them and that we could use the two rooms that they’re in and have more room. Ford might move in with us for just a while when we do.” Ford was one of mom’s brothers and he and his wife Marie, whom I had always liked, weren’t together anymore and he needed somewhere to stay until he could find a place.
“Really?” Georgie said again. “Well, I’ll have to talk to your mom about that.”
I then asked, not really expecting to get much of an answer, “Aunt Georgie, why aren’t they together anymore?” “Well, Johnnie, they just didn’t get along. Sometimes Marie wasn’t very nice to Ford.”
“Why not? She was always real nice me.”
“Yes, I know. She liked you, but something had to happen and Ford left.”
I ended it there, realising that they didn’t want to tell me any more. Jim took the opportunity to get in one of his jokes before we left the subject though.
“Yea, Marie didn’t have a heart John.” This was bait.
“Yes she did,” I protested.
“Nope..” he said with a grin, then, “she had a thumpin gizzard where her heart should be if you ask me.”
“Now Jim, don’t tell the boy things like that. He don’t know what no thumpin gizzard is.” Jim wasn’t paying attention to Georgie since he was too busy laughing. I started laughing to since I figured if Jim said it, it was probably funny though I didn’t know what a thumpin gizzard was. But mostly I was laughing at Jim’s laughing.
By then we were done with our ice cream. I got two helpings. I liked their food and ate a lot and uncle Jim always said I had a hollow leg and Georgie said I had a bottomless pit for a stomach. I protested that I did not. Then Jim got the fiddle out. “Play somethin!” I begged. Jim played the fiddle first. He was self taught and admitted it. He talked about how the songs he played were real old. He gave them names like, “Sailor’s hornpipe”, “Paper Dolly”, “Sally Goodin” and something he just called a bluegrass reel. Between songs, he put rosin on the bow which he said helped the bow not squeak and go more smoothly over the strings. I liked the tunes that started slow and then went faster and faster.
Jim played standing up. His foot tapped the beat as it moved from side to side, pivoting on his heel. He made the bow fly across the strings in a blur as it went up and down, back and forth. As he always did, when the song had ended, he would tell me that this was the song he won the a State contest for fiddler’s when he was only 14. He would then always carefully, carefully pack the fiddle away and tell me how it was given to him by one of his father’s friend.
Then came the guitar. He sometimes made up funny songs, like one he called ‘left over hash’. The song was about how, when he grew up, sometimes they couldn’t buy nice food and had to eat whatever they could get hold of. When they did have something nice, he said that his mom used to cook it and then use the left-overs, over and over again. It was a funny song and he liked to sing it and tell the story behind it. Most of the songs he sang had some sort of story connected to them. I liked the stories as much as the songs. The songs went on for about an hour and then Jim got out his records. They were very thick and old and called ‘78’s’ because that’s how fast you had to spin them on the player. He had some that he had made. The songs were also funny like ‘left over hash.’ He called the music Texas swing and I liked it. His favourite group was called Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys and he used to play them for me as well.
After all this, it was bedtime. I got off the couch and went through their small bedroom into the bathroom and put on my pyjamas, brushed my teeth, washed my face and came back out. By then, Georgie had fixed the couch up for me to sleep on. She would always put far too many blankets on in case I got cold, but always plenty of pillows as well. This was a treat. I liked sleeping on the couch because it was fun but more so because it was right next to the screened in window. Since the roof line hung over the windows and glass panes were opened all the way around. When it was like this, if it rained, you could listen to drops on the roof and breath in that clean, crisp smell that rain made. If it had been sunny and he sky was clear, like on this night, other treats awaited. I couldn’t wait for them to go to bed and turn out the lights.
The screen on my side of the room where the couch was, faced the river. The moon was full. I knew that when it rose high enough to shine between the trees and down on the river, it would allow the bright light of moon to reflect off the flowing water. I was determined to stay awake to watch it . When the other camp went to bed and dowsed their lights I could see the river better. I sat still and listened to the soothing constant flow of water from the little Miami. It flowed slowly but steady past the camps. Like the rain’s smell, this sound was soothing, cool, clean and mesmerising. There were no clouds and I was able to stay up till the moon appeared over the water. I perched on my knees, leaning on the back of the couch with my head resting on the top and stared out. It didn’t take long to get sleepy and after a bit, I melted into the cushion and drifted off to sleep to rhythm of the river’s relentless flow.
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I’m sure that you will understand when I say that I really loved it when no one actually came in to wake me up. I was just left to slowly drift back out of slumber, especially on that Saturday morning. And it was even more wonderful when my nose was invaded by a special smell. That smell was bacon and eggs. I hadn’t heard Georgie come into the room and she had moved quietly to not wake me. When she began cooking, my journey back from sleep began. It started with the first sound of clinking pans, then the smell and sound of sizzling bacon in my nose, and then the beater starting up. Whatever was left of sleep disappeared in a flash. The beater meant one thing – pancakes! American pancakes are a breakfast treat and I ate them with large chunks of butter – usually given to aunt Georgie by my Momma Laurie who churned it herself. And there was always real maple syrup. The bacon would sometimes swim in the syrup (I always put too much on) and the sweet syrup, mixed with the salty bacon tasted so good. I savoured each bite as if it were the last. I never ate the eggs. At 7 years old, I just couldn’t bring my self to enjoy eggs in any form. But I did wash all of this down with cold milk.
I came off the couch, and ran into the bathroom, having laid much to long to allow me to make anything but haste to the toilet. After this, I washed, went back into the living area to the couch and put on my clothes. Uncle Jim came in from the outside. “Well, its about time, half the day is gone.”
“Uncle Jim!!!! Its only eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock!? I’ve been up since six. The early bird gets the worm you know.”
I thought of something clever to say and I replied without missing a beat, “But I don’t like worms uncle Jim.” This got the laugh I was hoping for. A great way to start the day was watching Jim laugh.
“Here,” he handed me a big, heavy glass jug of whole milk, “I went to the farm down the road and got us some good, whole milk, but I’m gonna have to see how strong you are. Think you can shake it up.”
I stood up and tried to look strong. I took the glass jug which was indeed heavy and held it with both hands. It was still cold. I leaned backwards, holding my breath and grunting and shaking that jug of milk for all it was worth. The thick yellow cream on the top slowly started to mix with the white milk on the bottom and I lasted only a few seconds, but enough to make the milk drinkable. It tasted so good with the pancakes and I had two glasses full.
After breakfast, aunt Georgie announced that she and Jim would take me back since they wanted to see Momma Laurie. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth and washed again. I came out and put all my stuff in a paper sack from the grocery that aunt Georgie gave me and turned to go to the door, “Can I go outside and wait for you.”
“Yeah, that’s ok,” Georgie smiled and Jim chimed in,
“If you don’t need me to do anything Georgie I’ll go out with him and take him down by the river.”
“Now you be careful with him Jim and for God’s sake don’t tell Ruth, she’ll have a fit if she thinks he’s been down by the river.”
“I’m not going to say anything and besides I’ll be with him and he’ll be ok, “ Jim reassured.
We went down the stairs and outside and Jim opened the car and let me put my bag in the car. I was excited. I never got to go the river when mom was there because she was too scared I would fall in and something bad would happen. Jim and I then walked to the river. On the way he said, “Sometimes mothers get scared about these things, but don’t worry we’ll be ok.”
I wasn’t worried, I was excited. The day was beautiful. The sky was clear and azure, the mourning doves were cooing and the closer we got to the river, you could hear the rapids down stream, louder and louder with each step. The river by Jim’s place was pretty calm and you could go out on a boat and row and stay in the same area without much trouble. Jim looked around to the see if Georgie was anywhere near, then looked down and me and said, “Now Johnnie, don’t say anything, but next time your out, you leave it to me and I’ll get you out in that boat.”
“Promise?” I said softly with wide eyes.
“Promise.’
Georgie did come out shortly after that and we loaded the car and left for Lebanon. As the morning drew on, the heat rose and it was getting hot in the car and
hotter still as we arose out of the little Miami river valley and back onto the road towards Lebanon. Georgie drove since Jim couldn’t see that well and we made our way back home. When we got there, Georgie pulled the car in the front of the house and there was Mommie Laurie standing tall in the door, flowered print dress with an apron over top of it, black tie-up shoes. She had her hands on her hips and was smiling and glad to see all of us. As usual, Jim made jokes and cut up with her and though she rarely, if ever, laughed out loud, she smiled in her own way to let us know that she was amused. Jim, of course laughed like crazy.
There would be one more time to visit the camp later that summer, but not to spend the night. On that visit, for the first time in my life, I got stung by a wasp. But, to make up for that, I got to go out on the river in the row boat with Jim, just as he had promised. Mom watched nervously until she was sure disaster wasn’t about to happen. It never did and Jim even let me row some. It was great. But, after that we never visited again.
In the fall of the year, the weather turned nasty and little Jim’s situation became intolerable to uncle Jim. Jim and Gerogie had already determined they needed to move into a bigger house in Lebanon so little Jim could live with them. It was a much better situation for him and he was happy to be with his dad. Visits after were different, but they continued. The rains came early that fall and it rained and rained for days. The little Miami burst its banks and Jim and Georgie had to get out of the camp and, though they were still looking for another house but had not found one yet, this time their departure would be for good. They were away from home when the worst of the flooding hit and never had a chance to go back and get their belongings. The water rose all the way up to the part where they lived and most of their furniture was ruined and had to be thrown away. They lost pictures and one of Jim’s guitars was ruined beyond repair. There was a sort of a miracle, however.
Uncle Jim’s electric guitar lay under 6 inches of mud and Jim thought it was ruined. After the waters receded and they collected what they could from the camp, Jim took this guitar out of the ruined case, took off the rusted strings, washed the mud off, took the back plate off and cleaned it out with a hose. After letting it dry out for a few days, he put the back plate on, re-strung it, got an amplifier, plugged it in and it worked perfectly! He was glad and so was I. This meant the music would continue and since his fiddle was with him in the car and made it as well, we could still enjoy all of his songs. Oh yes, one more miracle. Jim had placed the records up high enough that they too survived. Most importantly, Jim and Georgie survived and there would be more overnighters in a different house, more music, more records and more of Jim’s laughing. I realised that though the camp was wonderful and I loved the quiet and stillness of the place and mesmerising flow of the river, I could go back there in other circumstances and see the little Miami, and indeed I did in later years. But, there was only one Georgie and one big Jim and they continued to play music and cook pancakes and laugh and tell jokes that, though entirely predictable were always welcomed.