50th / past / blast

I attended yet another "family affair" this past weekend.

A 50th wedding anniversary.

I wasn't feeling too well so I missed the big part where they renewed their vows.

(Curse you McDonald's! I know it was something I ate and I ate YOU! ...shakes her fist, wildly, in the air! ...considers stirring clear of Micky D's from here on out...)

I was at the shindig just long enough to: fork over the congratulatory card I'd thought to bring, grab a slice of cake and a shot of punch (A wonderful soothe for an upset tummy, btw - hahaha!) and ferret out a story or 2 from a childhood crony of my Uncle's.... which means... he also knew my Dad..... hummm... ;-)

The curious thing about the old man and family history is that he claims to remember "nothing". I've asked him, periodically for stories, family information, bla, bla, bla...

He'll look me straight in the eye, get a bit of an up curl going on around the corner of his mouth, open, said mouth, and say just that,

"I remember nothing."

And then he smiles.

('The end.')

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SOooOO... Hehehee, I probed his boyhood buddy, for a little info at the party.

His family name was "Fuller".

I've been wondering ever since, if that aint just about as apropos as it gets... but I digress!

(ahem)

My storyteller perked right up!

"Your Uncle and I used to hang out all the time and I knew your Daddy too."

I nod-in; indicating that he's got my full on attention.

"Me and your Uncle had a place we built down by the river. "

(that would be the Republican River, for reference sake)

"Oh, a little dug-out?" I prod on.

(I knew early settlers had dug outs along the river, including members of this family line.)

"No. A cabin. We had everything. We even had a cook stove."

He makes hand gestures, indicating a camp-size version, of such.

"Wow! That must have been a cool fort!"

"CABIN," He corrects me, again, "We dug into the ground and went up to McCook Ice - so we'd had ICE down there, we had food - we hung out there all the time.

Then one time, I remember, I was hanging out with your Uncle down there and we heard your Dad was coming down too.

Your Uncle didn't want him to hang out with us, So HE GETS HIS RIFLE, (emphasis added by me, now, hello!?) and goes out to keep him from coming on down. When he sees him, he starts shooting at him, about this far away from his head," Mr. Fuller holds his hands up, about a foot apart from each other, to indicate the approximate closeness of the shot from the head. "Boy! Ol' (my dad's name) hit the ground and he started belly crawlin'. And your Uncle kept shooting, and your dad kept belly crawlin' - all the way back home!" Yes. It seemed like my storyteller had been momentarily transformed and transported back to boyhood himself and at just that particular point in time - he looked rather gleeful - for the record - I felt a bit horrified and a whole lot dismayed! Just as I was about to express a big fat "Yeowza!?" ... Mr. Fuller pressed on...

"Well," he said, "It wasn't very long after that, maybe the next day, even or a day or two later, that me and your Uncle found out 'somebody' had blown our cabin up with a stick of dynamite. We always thought it was your Dad but we could never prove it."

LOL!

"Well, humm, he might have done it. I wouldn't put it past him, or blame him too bad if he did - under those circumstances! The only 'boyhood memory' he's ever claimed to have 'surfaced' involved dynamite. Only that was a story about him and my Uncle blowing up a tree stump with the stuff! Who knows huh?"

"Yah. We could never prove it. We always thought it. We could never prove it, though."

(Big smile, from Mr. Fuller to me.)