| 6 Joe McCaskie's date and
place of birth is not clear - he was a brother of James McCaskie on previous page. I have
not been able to find further details of another son of James and Ann, the original
Canadian settlers - John b 1857. It might be possible that John and Joe are the same
person. Joe McCaskie was Black Irish to the core. He was an
affable, hearty, somewhat loud, and overweight relative, with black hair all over his
torso, luxuriant and dense, which poked up out of his shirt collar and showed through his
shirt. No underwear for Uncle Joe! To say he was "cleanshaven" is an oxymoron.
He did, indeed, shave his whole face, but only once a week, and he had a fearsome black
stubble and a florid complexion. I especially remember his dark brown eyes, full of
mischief and sparks, and his bushy black eyebrows which he could raise right into his
hair, when he was "surprised". Also his vinegar-y smell. I couldn't place it,
but it was just part of Uncle Joe.
He had a tremendous paunch--in contrast to our own father who was well-muscled but
never weighed more than 150 lbs in his life. Uncle Joe had such enjoyment out of
life--never a care, it seemed--ready to play whatever hand Fate dealt out to him. He was a
bachelor who knew next to nothing about children, but with Father's assistance managed
to keep us clean and fed throughout our mother's "vacation". Having so much
attention from two male relatives was so novel to my sister and me that I do not recall
Grace and I missed our absent mother even once!
My most vivid memory is the day we were to drive to Forsyth to see our Mother.
Also to meet our baby brother, although nobody mentioned that fact to us. Silence
forestalled lots of embarrassing questions, I would surmise. Plenty of time to handle that
later, when Mother was at home again, to "explain" things.
That morning we were given baths in the tin washtub and dressed up in our Sunday Best pink
gingham dresses, which buttoned all down the back. Uncle Joe was given the chore of
getting us into them, after we were decently swathed in our floursack underwear. He
struggled and fussed to get our little arms through the puffed sleeves, yanked down the
skirt and buttoned the neck-to-waist closure with his stubby fumbling
fingers. No swearing, though something told me to hold very still, or he might erupt. We
did not DARE tell him he had put our little frocks on backwards--like a shirt--with the
buttons in front. But at least his buttons all came out even with the number of
buttonholes!
Thus we went joyously to town and Uncle Joe disappeared, never to return. We heard about
him sometimes. I've often wondered if Mom issued an ultimatum. Methodists disapproved so
single-mindedly of alcohol in any form that our mother believed even a wee drop of Auld
Cootie would send a soul straight to Purgatory--or wherever it is that Methodists go to
repent of their sins. I have a suspicion that Mom put her foot down in regards to our
lusty relative.
Years afterwards, our Dad told us that Uncle Joe was our "Drinkin'
Uncle" and by then I had realized why he was always so jovial and "smelled
funny". Since he lived many states away, his memory is untarnished. I feel very
privileged to have met our Uncle Joe.
Copyright 1999 Helen M.Wayman |
