Uncle Charlie Uncle Charlie Starr was old. Even back then, he was old. He lived up on a little mountain a mile or so from us. Mama always said he was related to us, one of her 'Uncles", even though I never saw him at any of the family gatherings. Uncle Charlie was a small man. I never saw him without his weathered straw cowboy hat, the stain of old sweat forever staining the hatband. He always wore a long sleeved shirt, the ones with the faux pearl snaps, 3 snaps on the cuffs, buttoned all the way to the top, even on the hottest day of August. He lived across the creek, past the low water bridge, up on a little mountain, way back, the little gravel road to his place becoming a dirt road, and then simply two wagon ruts, and finally only a small well worn path to his place. I remember Uncle Charlie still drove his wagon pulled by two tall Morgan horses, the old wagon wheels having been replaced by a couple of salvaged axles and four non matching automobile tires. As I grew a little older, he simply started walking wherever he went. Mama always drove into town on Saturdays to buy groceries, wash our clothes at the local laundry, pay the bills, and visit with the other women doing the same thing. On the first Saturday of the month all the families would line up at the government building there to pick up their 'commodities'. The entire day would be spent on these and other chores such as picking up feed for the stock and needed materials like seed or 'material', as the women folk described cloth or gingham. Many times we would drive by Uncle Charlie as he walked the eleven miles into town. Mama always stopped to ask him if he needed a ride. Usually he would decline, but sometimes, particularly on a cold day, he would simply accept this generosity and point his walking stick towards town and describe in the Cherokee language where it was he was going. Mama would have us kids get in the back of the pickup and allow Uncle Charlie to sit up front with her. If it was too cold for that, then one of us boys would sit on the others' lap and allow Uncle Charlie some room. I never heard him speak English. He really never spoke much at all. Only a grunt or perhaps a few words. "Been cold, Uncle Charlie," my Mom would offer. "Uh-uh," he would reply. "Uh-uh" is how you say "yes' in Cherokee. When Mama would tell him something of humor, particularly something silly a relative had done, he didn't laugh, he would simply smile a little and toss his chin up, as if acknowledging the story. The twinkle in his eyes behind those big coke-bottle bottomed black glasses laughed for him. On the way home, we would see Uncle Charlie again returning to the little cabin on the mountain. Most of the time he would simply put his hand up to our offer to give him a ride indicating that he would rather walk. I became a teenager and started driving. I stopped for Uncle Charlie one time and offered him a ride. He peeked in behind those big black glasses, his eyes looking huge under the lenses. "Hmmph" he uttered. To my surprise he got in and we started towards town. About a mile down the road he whacked me on the leg with his walking stick, "Ale wistodi ! " he said "Wistodi!". I pulled over and he got out. Apparently, I drove too fast for Uncle Charlie and he never accepted my offer for a ride again. He would simply shake his head and keep walking. Point his walking stick towards town and tell me where he was going. And that I wasn't the one to take him there. |
Old Man Walking
by LA (Lauritz Andersen) Ring
Uncle Charlie
© Michael "Wauhilau" Walkingstick - February 2004
gathered from the net
"Mountain Dreamer" midi courtesy of élan michaels bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass