Sis in the Garden ... For Uncle Arthur

I cannot help but tell the story one more time ...

"Come on, Sis' ... follow me."

Uncle Arthur always called me Sis'. It was an endearing term in our family. A name that had come down through several generations. I suppose to Uncle Arthur ... all women dearest to him were entitled to the name. It had a melodious sound; drawn out in his deep southern Missouri accent.

On this memorable day, Sis was reserved solely for me ........

The sun wasn't yet overhead, so the heat in the unshaded field was bearable. I trampled along behind, looking at the suspenders snuggly resting on his broad shoulders. His cap had mesh in the back. It was a bit sunken, as he preferred not to pull his cap down firmly on his balding head.

Uncle Arthur was a solid mass of a man. To all of his other nieces, he was mistaken as gruff, strong handed and a bit ominous. In my eyes ... he was a big, wonderful bear. His firm demeanor was prone to crumble with my spirited inquisitions.

The field was meticulously weeded and the mounds were exactingly symmetrical. He grabbed two five gallon buckets and pushed one at me without a word. I smiled and grabbed it from one of his weathered and strong hands.

"We goin' to the garden?" I asked excitedly.

He just smiled and motioned to the field with his head.

Growing up in St. Louis, I wasn't quite prepared for the trepidation one must take in a tender garden.

"Now, sis ... don't step on the mounds" he said with a hint of frustration. "You're gonna ruin my taters."

"Potatoes!!" "Where?" I inquired with glee.

"Right under yer foot!" he corrected. "They grow underground."

"Really? How do we get them?" I continued.

"Ya dig 'em up, Sis." he chuckled at my ignorance.

His steel eyes now puddles of soft blue, as I learned the art of the potato hunt.

I watched him work, as I sat on my overturned bucket twirling my long hair. He gave a thorough demonstration of the proper methods; stressing the importance of not damaging the potatoes. I watched and listened carefully to each word and every movement.

"Now go ahead, you dig here" he said and walked two rows back.

I sat for a moment longer, then turned my back, flipped my bucket and dropped to my knees. My daily chore underway.

I can't recall if I made it through the first row following the instructions I had been given. It may have been the second row, when I began to bore of the digging.

Dirt hit the green cap on my uncle's head, as he was digging the row behind me. A second, third and then fourth spray of dirt tapped his head.

"Sis!" he said firmly. "What are you doing?"

He watched me shovel the dirt with both hands between my legs. I followed this with the best barking impersonation I could muster. After all, I knew how much Uncle Arthur loved to raise 'coon hunting dogs.

"I'm diggin' like a dog!" I declared and bent back over throwing two more heaps between my legs.

"See!!" I replied proudly.

Uncle Arthur attempted to look disapproving of this behavior, but I could see his recognition of the spunk. The audacity and fearlessness of his sister's only child. I smiled at him and went back to digging in his preferred method.

I suppose I may have made it through a few more mounds. There weren't many potatoes in the bucket, when I once again grew mischievious. I had a very short attention span ... I was merely eight for heaven's sake!!

"Hup, one! Hup two!" I hollered. I looked back quickly over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of confusion, as I hiked him the first of several potatoes that I had unearthed. He missed the first potato, but caught the second. "Hup one ..." I started.

"Now, Sis ... you stop that!" he corrected me firmly. "You're gonna bruise my potatoes".

"Hup two" and out shot another potato.

A smile I will never forget drew gently across his wrinkled face, as he caught the potato.

((I will never be able to tell the story like you, Uncle Arthur. I will always remember how your version sounded ... over and over and to all that would bare to listen to it ... yet one more time.))