I vividly recall being awakened early one morning to the explosions of a shotgun, mixed with the droning of a small plane flying overhead. Frightened, but curious, I crept to the window to see nothing less than Mr. Bob, standing in the early morning sun, angrily firing a gun into the sky. He was making war with a rice farmer, who was spraying crops from the air. Mr. Bob did not want unknown substances in his strawberry patch, especially those chemicals used by a rice farmer. The rampage was only stopped by the arrival of Sheriff Rose. After a wordy argument, during which Mr. Bob put on quite a show, the gun was reluctantly put away. I don’t remember ever again hearing another rice plane flying that low over Mr. Bobs’ property.
I don’t recall Mr. Bob ever mentioning his own family, but he loved my father as a son. My two brothers and I were automatically accepted as his grandchildren. Our mother, innocently made the mistake of serving rice with supper one night when he was a guest at our table. He never forgave her. He tolerated her only because she was our mother and our dads spouse but he didn’t hold this against us. He didn’t come to supper at our house again. As children will, we simply accepted the fact that our mother was not a part of his family, but we always knew that we most certainly were. We accepted his love unconditionally and admired him freely. As we grew up, we neglected him unforgivably.
Mr. Bob shared a broken down shack with several chickens and three dogs that shared his personality. The dogs were friendly with the people who were welcomed by Mr. Bob, but they were unforgiving with the uninvited. Mr. Bob, armed with a shotgun, and surrounded by growling dogs, met visitors at the front gate and demanded an immediate explanation for being intruded upon. If the intimidated caller was not invited in, the dogs were obliged to chase them away. I was occasionally privileged to witness this joyous site. If the person was invited in, he would be accepted with the same joy, and upon sitting in a rickety chair would soon be surprised to find a chicken landing in his lap. Mr. Bobs chickens were special to him, and the guest that didn’t respect a chicken would deal with the dogs on the next visit, if it was dared.
Mr. Bobs farm, next door to ours was quite large. He didn’t grow rice, as most farmers in the area did. I don’t recall what other crops he did grow, but I do remember his strawberry patch. He kept it in prized condition and we were allowed to roam it freely. We were careful not to step on the plants and somehow, magically, the more berries we ate, the bigger the patch became. Each year it grew larger at the expense of the other crops. As small children, my brothers and I simply accepted this and expected more berries each spring. We were never disappointed.
A small man, crusty and ancient, Mr. Bobs command of a situation made him a giant in the eyes of a youngster. He didn’t smell good, but small children don’t usually care much about that. His faded blue eyes held multitudes of bullshit, especially the left one, because it was made of glass. We never knew for sure if an Indian had truly shot his eye out with an arrow, but it was a great story. On any given day his explanation would be new and different. One day, an alien in a spaceship had surgically removed it, and would someday return and give it back. Another time he fell on a sharp stick and lay unconscious in a field for three days before someone finally found him. Regardless of what had really happened to the eye, it provided hours of entertainment and kept him in the company of three adoring children.
As commonly happens in many peoples lives, we eventually had to leave the farm in southeast Texas, to enter a different world in a far away part of the country. Along with Mr. Bob was left the innocence of childhood. He became a sweet but sometimes embarrassing memory. As an adult, with small children of my own, I once became sentimental about him and wrote a letter including pictures of my own little ones. The woman who had been caring for him in his helpless, later years, returned my photographs to me, explaining that Mr. Bob had recently passed on. She let me know that he had never forgotten us. She mentioned that he would have loved to receive such a letter while he was still living. Her letter clearly showed her anger and produced in me the guilt that she was looking for.
A few years back, I watched as my small son climbed onto my fathers’ lap and asked if it was possible for a lightening bolt to charge out of a clear blue sky, bounce off an electric line, and put a mans eye out. The boy was assured that things like this did indeed happen, and quite frequently, in a far away place called southeast Texas.
Although I can never make up for the years of neglect, he is and will remain a part of my family. I don’t always think of Mr. Bob when I eat rice, but a sweet, juicy strawberry never fails to take me back to simpler times when I was not held responsible, but could just enjoy life innocently.