Grandpa Jake’s life was full of work…from sun-up to sun-down, from the day he could walk to the day he couldn’t. He provided for his own children, a handful of grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild or two… all from the rocky soil of a mountain top farm in West Virginia.
Though his name was Adam, Grandpa was known as Uncle Jake to everybody ‘round. Whether he was friend, foe, kin or not, he was Uncle Jake. I imagine 90% of the people who called him Uncle Jake were of no blood relation.
He wore bib overalls on every day but Sundays. Only on Sundays were the overalls traded out for pants and suspenders. He must’ve felt near naked without them.
Uncle Jake’s front porch was a gathering spot for all ages. There was always a welcome for you on the porch. Grab a rocker, perch on the rail, sit on a step . . . as long as you understood the fox season rules.
There were only two.
- If yer on the porch, yer listenin’ to the hunt.
- If yer on the porch, yer listenin’ to Uncle Jake’s commentary.
Well, there was an unspoken third rule . . . If you broke one of the other two, you better be out of reach of Grandpa’s canes.
Uncle Jake was a keen fox hunter in the day, but in his old age arthritis kept him home. During fox season he was on his front porch with ears tuned to the hills. Following the direction of the sound, he would keep up a sports-style commentary…telling the front porch audience what part of the woods the pack was crossing. He could tell by the bay of the hound whose dog was in the lead.
I only know Grandpa Jake from the stories. But I wager this about him…
He was the kind of neighbor who took the time to get to know you…knew you so well that he knew your dogs’ names; heck, knew how your dog sounded.
That’s knowing someone.
I wonder if anyone knows me that well…or I them.
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