Uncle Bud

My Dad spent 3+ years in the Navy, beginning at 17 when his own father, apparently deciding that joining the service during the Vietnam War was EXACTLY what his son needed, seeing as how said son had dropped out of high school. My Dad has amazing stories from that time, and here's one.

Once every few years, Uncle Bud would come visit from parts unknown.

Bud was not really family as in related. Bud had been with my Dad in the Navy and they had become very close friends. I don't even know if Bud was his real name, but just like the close neighborhood or family friends that you end up calling "Aunt Janet" or "Uncle Henry"-folks who seem to be around the house a lot, drinking up the jug of cheap Chianti always present in those days, and occasionally babysitting for a parents night out. The TV did most of the babysitting, as the adults in charge would let us stay up as late as we wanted, while they plied themselves with wine and commenced making out in the kitchen.

I truly only remember a few occasions when Bud visited, because I was young and because my Father and Bud had a falling out which I will describe later. Suffice it to say they were colorful visits and I still remember them years later.

For work, Bud drove a semi-tractor-trailer rig for Mayflower, a nationwide moving company. One time, when Bud came to visit, he showed up with just the tractor part of the rig, and parked it in front of the house. While the neighbors probably hated having this giant yellow and green truck on their street, taking up space on a narrow avenue, we kids were estatic, as Bud would allow us to climb inside, push buttons (with the engine off of course) and generally turn it into a playground for a week. There was the sleeping area he used on long hauls and in which we crashed one night,coming out the next day smelling of cigarette smoke and beer, rubbed into us by the threadworn blankets and thin mattress. It was heaven for a bunch of 8 year olds.

After a particular summer day of goofing around the neighborhood during Bud's visit, Mark and I came home to discover a particular aroma in the house. Being 8, I didn't know what I know now: that marijuana, when lit, puts off a very distinctive smell (boy do I know it now), and that parents, when discovered smoking said pot, will scatter to the four corners of the house, stammering and telling us to go outside and play. Later in the week, I discovered what turned out to be a weed pipe, which looked amazing like a very small vase. A bud vase if you will!

Well, having parents raised in the 60's and a Dad that went to Vietnam at a young age, I guess it was to be expected, and I am sure others in our neighborhood practiced a weed vacation from time to time (except the Mormon family down the street...they had no sense of humor at all, but a hot daughter so it all works out).

One night at dinner, Mom had just finished shoo-ing the kids from the table so that the adults could sit and talk while eating the rest of their meal. The stereo, one of those old-fashioned numbers that kids today would not recognize and truly hate, had the obligatory turntable with the penny on the needle arm, the analog dial where it was almost impossible to get a clear station to come in, and a bonus 8-track tape player on the side. Bud was in charge of the music selection that night when all of a sudden Glen Campbell's "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World" came on.

Bud suddenly stopped talking, pushed his plate to one side, cocked his chair at an angle and began singing out loud.

"Hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl...that walked out on me."

He did it with the most mournful look on his face, with his head down and very serious. My parents weren't sure what to do.

"Hey, did you happen to see..."

He was signing at the top of his lungs and it occured to my 8 year old brain that Bud had perhaps gone through a bad relationship or marriage or something. My parents loved each other very much, but I knew even at that young age that some adults just couldn't get along.

Who was she? Did she ride in Bud's truck with him? Did she have tattoos? Did she enjoy eating at truck stops and seeing the country? Did she have a family who missed her? Was Bud's singing the thing that made her leave? Did she smell like cigarette smoke and beer?

Bud never finished his dinner, instead he stopped singing, bowed his head for a moment, then looked up with a quiet "sorry" to my mom and dad. Dad just shrugged, while Mom looked at him with a sympathetic look. Perhaps Dad had already gone through episodes like this with Bud before, and his shrug was a way of acknowledging without being vocal...support without embarrassment.

I of course couldn't wait to go into my brother Mark's room and tell him all about it.

The last time I saw Bud, I was sitting in the back of the family pickup, playing fort or army or one of 1000 other imaginary games that kids that age play. All of a sudden, I saw Bud come storming out of the house and stalk towards his big truck.

"Hey, Bud" I called out.

"I'll see you later, Davie", he replied with a look of sadness on his face.

I didn't say anything back-I knew that something was wrong, but within the purview of my parents and nothing I needed to concern myself with, seeing as how I had angry Indians attacking my fort at the time.

Bud climbed into the green and yellow beast, started it up with a roar, and took off down the street. I looked up just in time to see the truck pull around the corner onto Hickey Avenue.

After defeating Red Cloud and his warriors, I walked into the house ready for dinner. Mom and Dad were sitting at the table, talking in muted tones. They didn't mention Bud then, but later I found out that he had said something cross to my mother while my Dad was standing there. Despite Bud and Vietnam, the bullets and fear, the comraderie and brotherhood, my father would not stand by and see anyone talk to my mother, his wife, in any fashion other than respect. Dad then made it clear at that point that Bud could leave under his own power or be taken outside and reduced to a dark spot on the driveway.

I wonder what Bud is up to these days. Despite an incident I never saw, I always liked Uncle Bud, and picture him sitting in his truck 10 feet in the air, driving to parts unknown. I hope he's happy and that he has good thoughts of Mark and me. I wonder if he still gets high.