Great Uncle Pat

Our paternal grandfather's brother, our great uncle, died in 1959, so there aren't many of us left who knew him. We of the 4th generation only knew him as children, and I, the eldest of the group, was just 12 when Pat died while feeding cows one winter.

Pat never married. I've been told that he drank for years, but one day simply quit alcohol. I heard him relate to a friend that one morning he woke up in the weeds behind the local bar. He got up and started inside for another drink to help his hangover, but then realized that another drink would start the process all over again. So he turned around, went home and never drank again.

We kids loved and were somewhat fascinated by him. Pat always bought us pop and candy and even shared his chewing tobacco with my brother and me one time. We both got horribly sick, so maybe there was a method to his kindness.

Pat took care of the chores around the ranch, feeding chickens, hauling firewood or kerosene to the house, plus myriad other tasks. He irrigated the hay meadows in the spring and fall, and was the lead mower during haying.

He made little rituals out of many of the things he did. When he brought the eggs in, Pat always stopped in the same, exact place every day. He would put his bucket down, take an egg, break it, and drop it down his throat. It was a magnificent act of courage for us to witness, and we were proud of him to all our classmates.

All the dogs followed Pat. Once, when coming from the chicken house, he lay down on the ice in the yard and played dead. All the dogs broke into loud howls, and when our grandmother looked out the window, she saw the confusion and thought Pat was dead.

His evening rituals fascinated us. After supper, Pat always trudged into the kitchen and fished around in his tiny batch of treasures. Some evenings he brought out a whetstone to sharpen his pocket knife. He honed the knife carefully while we kids asked questions. He always let us feel the edge and tell him how sharp it was.

Often Pat played solitaire or one person cribbage, using an old, soggy deck of cards, so worn it was hard to read. We hung on the edge of the table while he kept up a running commentary on the game, allowing us to be participants in his little ceremony.

Our favorite post-supper ritual occurred when Pat dragged out his large vial of mercury, or "quicksilver," as he called it. He would pour an inch or so into a cereal bowl, and spend an hour or two rubbing the mercury onto all of his loose change. The coins were brilliant, and he allowed us to play around with the mercury, which was a miracle liquid to us.

Once, Pat was at the old dump, where he found a skunk with its head trapped in a can. He grabbed the animal and got its head free, but was thoroughly sprayed in the process. It was during the winter, so he was dressed in heavy, wool work clothes.

Leaving the dump, Pat drove to one of the local bars, where he walked in, and went to stand quietly by the huge wood stove. It wasn't long, of course, before they chased him out, so he went up the street and did the same thing in the other bar.

The man smoked menthol cigarettes incessantly. I've seen scores of photos of him, and in every one he has a cigarette in his hand or mouth. The tobacco gave Pat a wretched cough that could last three or four minutes. When the spasm hit him during meals all the other eaters would sit paralyzed, mid-bite, until it passed. It happened at least once a meal for years.

Our grandfather, his brother, could be loud and authoritarian, but we never saw any irritation from Pat. He was content to stand in the back and let our grandfather take the lead.

Pat had an aura of soft contentment about him. As children we knew that we would never be admonished or corrected by him. That's a nice confidence for a kid to have once in a while.