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, all my siblings were gone by the time I was 12. So, I pretty well grew up with all the old folks. The Gillum’s 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 began. 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, lesser 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 mud holes 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 many times, 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 that’s the reason no sparkles show

On blades of grass when wet with dew

At early day when morn 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.