Uncle Ronnie tends to stay pretty close to home in his town of 3,700 folks. The nearest town of any size with a store is about 45 miles away.
My aunt regularly hops in her car to run errands and grocery shop, leaving him to his own devices for several hours on the farm.
Leaving my uncle to his own devices has been known to cause events that make the paper, the likelihood of which increases exponentially when he teams up with the preacher. Together, he and Charles have never known a skunk they couldn't get out of a barn, a calf they couldn't pull or tractor they couldn't break.
Their escapades frequently garner an audience of neighbors and passersby, with the menfolk often joining in while the women usually smile, roll their eyes and shake their heads as they walk toward the house.
Everyone in town knows my uncle's truck.
They know it not only because it's an unmistakable 22-year-old red-and-white pickup, but also because it consistently travels at 20 mph less than the posted speed limit, topping out at a maximum 45 mph on the highway. (I use the term "highway" loosely, meaning the two-lane paved strip between his town and the town closest to it with a population, including dogs and roosters, of 217.)
I know of only one exception to this rule, having witnessed it as my uncle drove me to my mother's visitation. As he passed another truck on the main drag through Pollard, Ark., I snapped out of my sadness long enough to glance over at his speedometer. Nearly 70 mph! Through Pollard? Good thing their only cop car can't reach that speed.
I looked over at him. He looked over at me. Grins slowly overtook our faces and made our eyes disappear. Not a word was exchanged, and those in the backseat wanted to know what was going on. We didn't say a thing, but we spoke volumes. Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.
There are those rare occasions, however, when Uncle Ronnie will venture into the world beyond his 45-mile radius of Northeast Arkansas.
A couple three years ago, he and Aunt Shirley made the voyage to my house to visit and bring a few pieces of my mother's furniture to me on their trailer.
Now, depending on the route selected, time of day and day of week, it takes me about 6 hours to get from my doorstep to theirs. Allowing for extra stops for older bladders and knowing his aversion to traveling a normal rate of speed, I estimated they'd at least be here in time for supper.
I was wrong.
About an hour or so before I thought they'd arrive, I called to check on them. Aunt Shirley answered and sounded irritated. They were in Conway.
Conway?
Yes, Conway.
Seems Uncle Ronnie refused to listen to the lady on the GPS because she wasn't from around here and didn't know what she was talking about. And she seemed to only know one word, "recalculating," so he turned her off.
"She wasn't the only one turned off," my aunt said.
A couple more hours passed and I called again. Uncle Ronnie had been stopped by a state trooper.
I assumed it was for going too slowly, but turns out, when my uncle and I had loaded the trailer a few weeks before, we'd used a large old rag doll as a buffer between the bureau and the rails. It looked like a 2-year old child was hanging off the back end of that trailer.
My uncle didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, we don't let her in the cab," he replied.
This didn't help his cause.
My aunt and uncle finally pulled into my drive a mere 14 hours after they left Piggott. I strolled out to greet them.
Aunt Shirley, normally a chipper lady happy to see her niece, raised her hand in front of her and stopped an impending hug, saying, "I love you, but I just need a minute or I'm going to shoot your uncle."
Uncle Ronnie flung open his arms and hollered, "We're here!"
Aunt Shirley threw him a look of disgust. She pecked me on the cheek and scurried toward the house calling, "I've spent 14 hours in the truck with that man and been all over the state of Arkansas. I've prayed and he's cussed the whole way here!"
I guess he doesn't even need the preacher to make the paper these days.
Commentary on 08/14/2014