My Uncle Pete

Visiting my great grandfather in my early years, probably not even 5 years old, was an adventure that is vivid to me even now as that was nearing half a century ago. He introduced me to my Uncle Pete...who was much closer to the irish roots of orneriness that runs diluted in my veins.

Meeting Uncle Pete... Gruff voice, keen eye, shrewd, quick to laugh, tattoos from earlier life, ...Pa Ode brought me by Uncle Pete's car lot to let me get some water for my pixie sticks to make some kool-aid. He directed me to the bathroom around back on the backside of his office building, I took my cup and went. Returning with a dry cup, somewhat dismayed, unable to find the faucet...the bathroom only had a commode. His gruff voice barking out a remark that who did i think I was -that water was good enough for them what made me think it was too gross for me! As he said this I could see the study he was making of my face...and only the fact that he was talking to a kindred spirit gave him away otherwise his indignant reaction was quite a convincing act.

Eventually my cousin showed me the water hose..(which was around back but not as far as the bathroom)..this water hose was what my uncle was sending me to but he enjoyed taking advantage of the misunderstanding when I thought he meant for me to dip my water out of the commode.

His "real name" given at birth was "Raymond" , and his brother "Jack" was actually "Fred" at birth but what I've been told was they became named "Jack" and "Pete" because their uncle who lived next door to Pa Ode had two donkeys...Jack and Pete and when these two came along they got named after those two donkeys. If you knew them, you'd understand that perfectly.

About a dozen years later when the government sent me to live awhile in that same area I would go visit my uncle and aunt in their home over the weekend when opportunity would arise. He and I would stay up till 2 or 3 in the morning before "falling asleep" would force us to call it a night. We would talk, play dominoes, or most commonly...use his extremely linear boosted cb radio to "agitate truckers". That was his CB handle.."the agitator" and he always claimed he was up on Sugar loaf Mountain...which was a very very long ways from reality. He enjoyed getting a rise out of them, and he explained that he was really just "getting them going" or "worked up" to help keep em awake. Since I was a Chinese translator he really enjoyed having me yack out a paragraph or two into the radio in Chinese...with kind of an angry tone...When they came back with derision and insults telling me if I didn't want to learn to speak English just to go home. Uncle Pete would just lean back in his chair and laugh and laugh.

Years later in life I was fortunate that our paths crossed again and Uncle Pete and I were able to spend quality time visiting each other when I moved to that town. When work for the day was done and I walked from work to the house I was rebuilding to move into..it was a common thing for him to leave his lot (across the street from where I was working) and pick me up to give me a ride...but it always ended up with us just sitting in the truck visiting for sometimes an hour or so before I headed inside to build and he returned to the lot or went home.

These visits with my great uncle were extremely important in my life. Treasured memories. There were so many discussions and thoughts. The biggest regret he had in life that he related to me was that early on he had spent so much of his life as an alcoholic and had lost out on the opportunity to really influence his kids hearts to be on God. Whether it was me unloading a heart full or him unloading a heart full, there was a trust and comfortableness between us that was wonderful.

When he died suddenly one day , a couple years after I had moved to a different town, it was a tremendous blow. That has been nearly a quarter of a century ago now but it came to mind today anew as I went through some old papers and ran upon a journal entry that I had made about Uncle Pete after his death.

This is that entry...

A Friend in Silence.

I treasure the friendship that we shared. One of us could go to the other and merely be in one another's presence, quietly, silently, effortlessly and be fulfilled with the calming peace of the sense of being loved. I miss you my friend.

You genuinely cared about me, and I you. There was an understanding between us, an understanding that brought reassurance and healing...even without words.

Life ran through the days like a river, crashing into the rocks, churning blue and white together, running always running, winding, traveling relentlessly as if its journey was always urgent...Time with you, was as if the river finally met the still, peaceful lake. I could tell you about my feelings, and whatever struggles were troubling me...but most often I did not even need to, because we would meet, and laugh, and time would pass, and the burden that caused me to seek you...didn't seem that burdensome anymore.

You encouraged me, and I believed in me because I did not fear failing, because I knew that even if I failed...I was not a failure in your sight.

You leaned on me, during times of trial, and that is the way it was between us, we were friends, friends that often found great peace in time spent together..with no words.

I miss you my friend, It has been a few years since I've seen you but to this day I still can not yet go to stand by your grave, because it hurts too deeply.

I often think of you, and feel your presence within my mind & heart, and even now feel the calming peace & love between two friends.

Those odd noises in the night...

The original of the event I will relate in this post is a rare piece of work to own. It is amongst my special treasures..the author's original manuscript, the tale is written in pencil, in the authors hand. It dates back to the late 70's and is some of the earliest literary works of a great writer. Enjoy...

Quite strange really, and you would think so too, if you awakened in the night to find a ghastly war raging in the midst of your kitchen. I don't know how it happened really but the french fries, left over from the big mac I had partially eaten, were making a gallant stand against a ghastly arrayed group of cockroaches.

Although surrounded by the cockroaches, the french fries were by no means defenseless, standing end to end the french fries made a shaky line perpendicular to the table. The top french fries would then jump off on a flabbergasted cockroach, squashing the poor devil into the table, then quickly running back to the line and ascending to the top, which i deemed impossible if it were not for the ridges.

The small container of ketchup was playing no idle part in this conspiracy. While the cockroaches were thoroughly occupied it had succeeded in edging behind one of the cockroaches, a singular brave french frie then charged the cockroach and sent him retreating into the crimson mulch, of which he never returned.

The cockroaches then began a hasty retreat but then a huge chunk of animated baking soda rolled off the counter and onto the table. The french fries seemed to understand immediately and a group of them followed the lifelike chunk toward a partially drunken bottle of pop. The baking soda was then hoisted upward on the backs of 3 french fries, meanwhile the cockroaches were scurrying across the ceiling to their hidden refuge behind the light socket.

The baking soda plopped into the bottle as the three french fries wedged themselves into the opening. The timing was superb for as the frantic cockroaches were directly over the bottle the french fries departed upward with a resounding kamikaze pop and stuck to the ceiling were the cockroaches and 3 of the bravest french fries I've seen.

The big mac was convulsing in involuntary sobs and the remaining french fries paraded slowly, heads bowed, towards their respectful saucer.
(by C.K. Cearley approx. 1975)

While most of us would have rolled over and listened for a moment, thinking we had heard something in the kitchen, then drifting back to sleep, I'm grateful that the writer of that tale was in a position to have witnessed what happened in the middle of the night that most of us would have never known anything about.

And while he is a published author now, but not by that name, I wanted to share this before the pencil lead became too faded...but "the rest of the story"...what name is his works today published in?...you would have to ask Paul Harvey to reveal.