Uncle Dad

I grew up (ages 13 to 30) in a rural neighbor hood.  Most of the homes were on five-acre lots and almost all of my neighbors were brothers and sisters.  Dad bought the property from the ex-wife of one of the brothers.

The dirt road is Smith Avenue.  Guess who lived there?

These people were true salt-of-the-earth old-time rednecks.  The man who lived on the property in front of our house, abutting our pond was Donovan.

He was a very tall, lanky man.  He was an old fisherman.  He had two daughters.  His wife, Dot, is a short, concise, tolerant woman.  She had to be.

Donovan was the family member who I had the most contact with.  I'd walk my dog down the long driveway and he'd be out in the yard puttering, usually bare-chested. He'd call over to me in greeting.  Something like "Dalking the wog?"

He was my buddy.  He'd even stand on the levee between the small pond he built and the larger pond and holler to me as I canoed around.

Donovan eventually died.  After a few years, Dot married her deceased sister's husband from California.  It made sense to them to bond together against loneliness. The husband of her youngest daughter gave him the appellation "Uncle Dad."

That's all.

I am grateful for the time I spent on Smith Avenue.  It taught me how to relate to people on their plane of existence. 

And I loved going barefoot, too.