Uncle Dooley

His name was Andrew Jackson Bozeman. Last week would have been his one hundred thirty-seventh birthday. My Great Grandfather left this earth when I was eleven.

He left this earth that he loved so dearly. He tilled and dug and planted this earth. And was proud of everything he grew.

He had a garden just up the road from where he lived. He walked there every day. He used a thin, carved walking cane that he had made for himself. It looked like some sort of bamboo.

Every notch and indention, perfectly polished and varnished to a warm wooden color.

He really didn’t need that cane to walk. It just made him feel better to help him keep his balance.

“Hello, Uncle Dooley!” folks would slow down to say, when they passed him in their cars, as he walked the narrow, well worn trail along the edge of the road. Uncle Dooley, as he was called, was well loved in St. Stephens.

“Headed to my garden,” he’d reply, while tugging on the straps of his suspenders.

“Now don’t you get too hot up there!” passersby would advise.

“Don’t worry,” he would reply.

After working the rows of rich, dark earth, Papa, as we called him, would take a seat under the big mimosa tree that shaded the side of his garden. The old mimosa leaned to one side, making a perfect shelter of tiny bright green leaves interspersed with puffs of soft, pink flowers. He would take a seat in the old, wooden ladder back chair that sat out in the weather, year after year, waiting on his return every spring. Papa would sit there, spinning his walking cane on his thumb. I was always amazed how he could do that.

Papa was in his late eighties when he finally gave up his garden. But he would still talk about it. For at least a few more years.

While sitting on his front porch in his rocking chair.

Smoking a cigarette.

Spinning the thin, shiny walking stick on his thumb.

And sipping on Mason jar full of sweet tea.

From the mind of me.