This story may not be the most delicate way to introduce my late great-uncle Art, but it paints a small vignette of the man who is the second subject in my series of "Awesome Old People I Admire." (at least I think that's what I called it in my last post).
Born in 1909, my great uncle Art was the oldest in a family of three children. His mother died when he was young, and as was all too common in those days the three children were shipped to three separate relatives. He eventually settled in the small railroad and farming community where I grew up, where he remained a bachelor along with his own uncle and his father (my great-grandfather), who had remarried and divorced.
A man of order, Art had a strict schedule that he lived by. Change was anathema, and he lived without running water until entering the local nursing home at age eighty. He came to visit our farm each day at promptly 5 o'clock p.m. My mom tells of the time she found a snake in the house (? yard? I'll have to ask her) one afternoon around three, and the men were out in the field. Art was the only one she could think of to call. She frantically told him of her plight. "Ah, yah, I vill be out at 5 o'clock, den," he told her in his slow Norwegian brogue. It didn't occur to him that he would need to change his daily schedule. Three o'clock was likely the time slot devoted to feeding his birds.
His hatred of change was also reflected in the names of his dogs. Each one, regardless of its hue, bore the moniker "Brownie." Art had a special place in his heart for animals, and informally adopted many of the neighborhood strays. He was also a talented fiddle player, and was a large part of my own desire to learn the instrument.
And now the story. My dad has told this several times, and I will tell it from his point of view, to the best of my ability.
I stopped to see Art one cold fall day. We were building our house, and I had some extra scrap wood that I knew he'd appreciate for his cook stove. The entryway to his shack served as coal bin, woodpile and a waiting area for several neighborhood cats and the occasional dog.Art would regularly serve his guests ground round and other delectable tidbits, and his reputation was well-known in the animal community.
The wood stove was burning brightly when I entered, and there was a slight odor of food mixing in with the others of coffee, coal, and the other odors found in a seldom-cleaned living area. To my standard greeting of "What have you been up to?" Uncle Art gave his standard reply, "Oh, ye, I have been so busy. Yust vit small tings."
He invited me to sit down and share his pot of soup with him. I had been working hard on the house all morning, so had worked up quite an appetite. "Don't mind if I do." Art produced an old coffee mug which had surely been used several times before. He handed it to me, but upon noting its filthy condition he rubbed it on his overalls, which were shiny and black at the knees, no thanks to being used exclusively as a dishtowel. Inspecting the inside of the cup, he found additional grime, which was promptly wiped off with his fingers (which matched his overalls). My stomach turned.
The soup was served and I was hungry enough to overcome my initial impression of my uncle's culinary skills. I sat at the table with Art and one of his feline friends, and we shared some general conversation about the weather and community happenings.
Mid-slurp I heard a strange noise coming from behind the stove. It was one of the other feline guests, who looked a little beyond the help of Art's famous ground round. Art stopped eating, as well. "The poor cat is sick," he said quietly. "I will put him outside." He reached behind the stove. Grasping the retching cat under the belly had the effect of producing additional spillage from the other end of the animal, which spread in a wide arc across the floor.
To remedy the problem Art produced a large, dry mop, the business end of which stood on its own even when picked up. He attacked the mess firmly but slowly, thoroughly and with wide strokes spreading the offending substance as an additional layer on the already-grimy linoleum.
By now I had finished about half of my soup, and contemplated discreetly adding yet another layer to the floor mess; it would likely go unnoticed, the solid chunks being promptly cleaned up by a dog. But I held my breath and slurped up the soup, reminding myself that as a hog farmer I really should be immune to anything.
I was needed back at the house, I told him, thanked him for the soup, and said I'd see him at five.
My wife, very pregnant and somewhat squeamish about such things, noted my pallor as I walked through the door. I decided to spare her the details at that moment, and just said I'd dropped off wood at Art's shack. No need for further explanation. "Well, wash up, then. I'm sure you're hungry," she said and took a bowl to retrieve some soup from the large kettle on the stove.
