Uncle
Franz
I
was born when my dad was 52, my mom 40. The youngest of the Gillum
Wing generation. My cousins were grown and gone, and all my siblings were
gone by the time I was 12. So, I pretty well grew up with all the old
folks. The Gillums mostly lived side by side, or about as close to
side by side as we got in Wing. A mile apart.
Most
of my uncles and my dad were pretty serious, no nonsense, hard men.
At least, they were by the time I came along. I never knew any of
them when young blood flowed through their veins.
But
Uncle Franz was different. He still laughed a lot, and he found
things in life to enjoy. He was very, very, smart. He spent much of
his working life teaching, as an administrator, or as a Civilian
Conservation corps director after the depression. He had retired by
the time my memories of him started. He came back to Wing, Built a
house, a big fishing pond, got land and cattle. His girls were still
finishing up school, so Aunt Grace hung out at Conway until they were
grown. He was so sick of dressing up every day, he came back living
and dressing like a sure enough hillbilly.
He
taught at Fountain Hill awhile. He told me once they lived in a
pretty rough part of town, and when they came back to Wing for a
visit, (Everybody from Wing comes back as often as they can. Wing is
just about the perfect place to be. Just about. The one thing missing
is a lot of options about what to do for a living. So he, like me,
had to scramble around in other parts of the world to make a living
and raise a family.) he was a little worried about his house and his
stuff while he was gone. So, he found the biggest, roughest, meanest
man in the neighborhood, took him his house key, and asked him to
watch his stuff while he was gone. That worked perfectly. Nobody ever
messed with his stuff. I told you he was smart. It was a hard day's
drive from Southeast Arkansas in those days, what with all the
mudholes to get through.
Uncle
Franz seemed to go to bed about the time the chickens went to roost.
But he was up by the middle of the night, and a whole lot of that
time, he was pounding on his old, beat up typewriter. I saw him doing
that a lot, but never knew what he was doing in those days. It was
not until recently, when I began to see some of his work, that I
realized he was a world-class poet. But his work seems to be pretty
much lost to the world. The copies of his poems that I have been able
to get my hands on are pretty dim, probably copies of copies of
copies from an old typewriter not much good to begin with. But I'm
going to do the best I can to figure out some of them, and share them
with you. Hope you like them too.
Three
Shots Rang Out
A
man was riding on parade
A
great good man who fervently prayed
For
peace and freedom the wide world O'er
When
three shots rang out and he's no more.
A
man so young and sincere too
Ambition
spurred to drive him through
A
fearless man with wisdom's store
But
three shots rang out and he's no more.
A
speechless world rose quick and fast
To
honor him whose soul had passed
From
life through death to live once more
For
in hearts those shots closed not the door.
A
mortal form lies lifeless now
No
wicked worry to fret his brow
Yet
he's greater now than e'er before
Since
three shots rang out and he's no more.
**
No
Sparkles Show
Sometimes
the dew on blades of grass
That
crowd in over the padded path
And
hide the footprints in the dirt
Goes
by unnoticed as I work.
No
sparkling diamond hue I see
Because
my eyes are so busy
Searching
for another sight
A
little spot of red and white.
It's
hidden somewhere in the grass
I
must not miss it as I pass
Of
course it probably would be
As
well that I did not see.
Yet
something inside me tells me “no”
And
thats the reason no sparkles show
On
blades of grass when wet with dew
At
early morn when day is new.
Dew
sparkling grass is just as wet
And
sparkles just as bright, still yet
It
bothers me not as much by half
When
looking for a newborn calf.
**
Oh
'my gosh what was that
That
weird sound out yonder?
Sounds
just like a squalling cat
followed
then by rolling thunder.
Curiosity
got the best of me
Out
the window I looked to see.
Then
quick as lightening's flash
I
rushed over to the window
Pulling
up the bottom sash
I
saw kids on the biggest bender
No,
not drunk, I didn't say
Just
a frolicking group at prankster's play.
On
they came so thick and fast
Noisy
costumed witches leading
Followed
behind by lad and lass
Street
decorum knew no heeding.
Turned
the corner down my street
And
at the door yelled “trick or treat!”
Treat.
The choice was made post haste.
What
was left for me to do?
I
knew I had no time to waste
When
I viewed closely this weird crew
Dressed
so spooky from head to feet
Playing
innocently “trick or treat.”
**
Uncle
Franz drove his Farmall Cub tractor by our house just about every
morning. I knew he was going to check his cows. But I also knew that
before lunch, he would be down at the lake or the river, fishing. If
I was able to get loose, I grabbed my pole and headed down that way.
Sitting on the river bank with Uncle Franz, catching one bream after
another, was always time very well spent. I always rode out on the
back of his tractor.
In
his later days, A doctor discovered he had an anurism in his stomach.
He was told that if it burst, he would die before he could get to a
hospital. Uncle Franz said, “That sounds like a good way to go.”
He had no operation. A while later, he did go. Just that way.
.
.
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