Speaking of Uncle Dick

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The Annie Mae branch of our Bryant family probably should have dibs on this story, but I imagine they won’t mind if I share it with you.  As long as you’re not spilling any beans or hanging out any dirty laundry, it’s okay to steal tales about your relatives and put your own spin on them.

Your great, great, great uncle Richard Skinner – the one who sent the goat to Schaefer – ranks among the true characters in our strongly rooted, multi-branched family tree.  Granted, he was not blood kin, but for all intents and purposes you couldn’t tell.  Larger than life and quite the counter-balance to his sweet, demure, lady-like wife Annie Mae, Uncle Dick always approached every task from the mindset of making things happen, whether business or pleasure.

During the Great Depression, he accumulated thousands of acres of land between Jacksonville, Florida, and the beaches just to the city’s east – an area now developed and known as Deerwood.  He and Annie Mae resided in the heart of this property in a stately home called “Hamill Fields.”  I’ll never forget visiting Aunt Annie Mae and Uncle Dick when I was young.  He invited us to come out and fish in Lake Ressielona (named for Ressie of Mittie, Mattie, Ressie, Jessie, Annie Mae, Wade, Gene and Jamie), a beautiful body of water behind their house filled with bass so big you could hardly reel them in.  To insure we had a successful outing, Dick provided us with “shiners” as bait – a special kind of minnow that shines when light hits it, attracting the bigger fish like a magnet.  Normally, Dick didn’t want “shiners” in the lake because if they got off the hook and swam free, they grew up to be a type of carp that scavenged the bream and other desirable fish. 

But Uncle Dick wanted to make things happen for us…. and did they ever.  Each time we cast a line into the lake, a bass hit the bait.  I think the smallest fish we caught weighed over three pounds.  When we brought our full stringers back to the house, almost too heavy to carry, Dick had all the fish cleaned and we gorged ourselves on a fish-fry dinner with all the fixings.

There are many rich Uncle Dick stories in our family folklore, but this is one of my favorites……

A friend had come to visit at Hamill Fields and Uncle Dick suggested that they go hunting.  The land was rife with deer, wild turkey, boar, possum, raccoon and lots of other creatures large and small.  You could always find something in season.

“But I don’t have a hunting license,” the friend bemoaned.

“Wouldn’t worry about that,” Uncle Dick responded.  “We’re not going off of our property.  There shouldn’t be any game wardens out here.”

The two struck out with rifles in hand and dressed in camouflage.  It was obvious they weren’t just out in the woods for a stroll.  The plod through the underbrush, and plod through the woods and underbrush, Uncle Dick checking the ground for tracks of whatever might be prowling around. 

All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, appeared a game warden.  The friend froze in his tracks.  Uncle Dick – without hesitation – took off running as fast as he could.  The game warden sprinted after him.  Over fallen logs and low Palmetto scrub, Dick raced through the woods he knew so well, the game warden in hot pursuit. 

After about ten minutes, Uncle Dick stopped, turned around and waited for the warden to catch up to him.

“Le..le…le..let me see your hunting license,” the warden wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

Calmly, Uncle Dick took out his wallet from his back pocket and produced the license for the warden’s inspection.

“Why is God’s creation did you take off running,” the warden asked incredulously.

“Well, you see it’s like this,” Dick confessed.  “My buddy back there doesn’t have his.  Of course, feel free to give him a ticket….if you can find him, that it.”

Speaking of Goats

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Speaking of goats…..when your great, granddaddy Schaefer was just a little boy, his Uncle Richard Skinner from Jacksonville decided that what his nephew needed more than anything was a goat.  And so, he boxed up a goat, took it to the train station and shipped it to Greenville.... unannounced.

When the four-legged pack of mischief arrived, the freight steward called your great, great grandmother Mattie to inform her that she had a crate waiting for her. 

“What is it?” she inquired.

“I can’t rightly say,” the steward answered, “but it’s shor ‘nuff alive….. and it come from Jacksonville.”

Smelling a Skinner rat, Mattie hitched a ride with her brother, Gene, down to the station where they found the goat in fine health and very ready to get out of his box.

Mattie was nothing if not a good sport and she decided to keep the goat for Schaefer.  Step-brother Frank Kendrick bought a halter with reins and made a little pull cart so that Schaefer could guide the goat around the neighborhood whenever he wanted.  Schaefer loved that goat.

But as goats do, he grew.  He ate everything in sight. His appetite proved too much for Mattie’s prized vegetable garden in the back yard.  The final straw came when he ingested half the laundry hanging on the line to dry. 

Mattie figured and figured on what to do with the goat.  She decided to send him back to Uncle Richard, unannounced of course.  Gene made a nice, new crate for him and, with some fierce resistance, they finally cajoled the goat into it.  They drove down to the train station, filled out a destination ticket, attached it to the crate and left the goat with the steward.

No sooner had Mattie returned home than the phone rang.

“Is this here Mrs. Bryant?” a voice queried on the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“Well, this here’s the train station.  You got to come back down here and do somethin’ about that goat what you left.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep.  We got a big problem with this here goat. You needs to come down here quick a’fore de train gits here. ”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well…..dat goat….dat goat dun et up where he’s g’wan and we don’t know where to send him.”