In the spring of my fifth year, Uncle George created “the farm” to drive his neighbors crazy.
He covered the front lawn with tons of horse shit and planted watermelons, pole beans and berries.
Then he constructed a 100 foot radio tower and a big radar dish in the middle of the yard so he could talk to the Russians and solve the Cold War.
George made me “his partner” in the farm.
Weekends and summers, I lived with George and helped him with the farm.
Being George’s partner in “the farm” was my first job. The “work” seemed a lot like what I heretofore had called “play.”
In the morning, we would rake horse shit for a while and then George would decide we should take a “7up break.”
Uncle George owned the 7up distributorship. We kids thought he owned 7up.
We drank a boatload of 7up.
Uncle George’s 7up was generally more of an amber color.
Once we stopped for the first 7up break that was pretty much it for the workday. Uncle George would decide we needed to get a bunch of lobsters or talk to the Russians or go see a guy about a boat, and then we were off.
On Sundays, we had to go to church.
Church with George was awesome.
We were Catholics. Us Catholic kids had to go church every Sunday morning.
I asked Uncle George why we Catholics always had to go to church every Sunday.
He said it was one of the “Six Miserable Mysteries.”
He claimed that the other five were his sisters.
Sunday mornings defined Uncle George for me.
After 7up breakfast and shoveling a little poop we would get ready for church.
George dressed to aggravate Father Murphy, the pastor of the tiny church for our little cove.
George owned a dozen tailor made suits from London and New York that I never saw outside of his closet.
George always wore his farming clothes to church – the same work pants, sweatshirt and knee high rubber boots that he wore shoveling horse poop.
The rubber boots stunk like hell and “galumped” when he walked.
The galumping was important because it aggravated the bejeezuz out of old Father Murphy.
I spent a half-hour getting ready. Ten minutes donning the required church uniform for a Nova Scotian little guy – white shirt, Nova Scotia tartan short pants and matching bow tie and knee socks.
Very cute.
I spent another twenty minutes combing a half tube of Uncle George‘s Brylcreem into my hair until it laid flat and shiny as an ice rink.
The church ladies would go on about how cute I looked and pat my head and get Brylcreem all over their fingers.
We always got to church late. George would drive around for a bit until he was certain that they had gotten started and then he would pull up his 7up van and park right out front to assure a quick getaway.
When Uncle George blew open the front doors everyone knew he had arrived.
Our procession from the front door to our pew brought to mind a battered old fishing schooner chugging into a crowded cove. George galumped down the center aisle to the front row with me bobbing in his wake like a freshly painted dinghy, then he would put his helm hard over and drop a hook in the middle of the front row.
George would lean forward for a bit staring down Father Murphy who now had smoke coming out of his ears like he was a new sacrament, then George would cross his booted legs, and snap open his newspaper.
That “snap” said it all.
George read his paper all through mass – ignoring the standings, sittings, and kneelings – until it came time to take the collection.
The senior male of our family had been taking collection in that little church for generations. There were not going to be any changes on Uncle George’s watch.
George would fold up his paper and galump up and down the aisles in his rubber boots with the basket, until the collection was taken.
He always used a collection basket that was passed with a stick handle.
He claimed you couldn’t trust the parishioners with those baskets that were passed along the rows because of “the dippers,” folks who would take money out.
The basket on a stick also allowed him intimidate the wealthier churchgoers who were inclined to hold out.
He would wiggle the basket in front of them until they coughed up more cash.
When he finished the collection he galumped up the aisle, dropped his booty at the foot of the altar, nodded to Father and then to me and we hauled anchor and were out the door.