Besides our Great Uncle Hal, one of my other favorite relatives was my grandfather's brother whom we affectionately called Uncle Barney or Uncle. He was really our great uncle but we always called him Uncle Barney.
He was a big man in more ways than one. He stood about six feet tall and weighed around two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a fringe of reddish brown hair and his skin was the color of burnt mahogany. Uncle had the misfortune of being born with a cleft palate and a hair lip. Surgery may or may not have been available to him but none was ever performed throughout his lifetime.
Uncle didn't place too much importance on this problem however and when you chanced to look into his face you soon forgot his physical deformity because you were drawn to his eyes. They were the only things about him that weren't old. They were the color of deep amber and they snapped and twinkled and were undefeated. When he fastened them on you, well, you knew that something was about to happen! He had what was referred to as a large barrel chest, a great deep voice and a hearty laugh and he loved nothing better than to sit down and spread some nice juicy gossip or pass on a "dirty" story or two, just to shock folks.
Very often, after he'd told a story, others would immediately retell it with all of his speech impediments included, which often made the retelling of his story much funnier than the original. Some folks might have felt sorry for themselves if they had been in Uncle's shoes, but not him. He always found something to laugh or joke about.
Uncle lived about a quarter of a mile down the Masardis Road from grandfather Colbath's house. He'd built a small two room bungalow that measured about eighteen feet by twenty feet. Half of the building was reserved as a garage for his pick-up truck and the rest of the space was used as his living quarters.
Across one end of the narrow structure, he'd built a bunk bed with two long drawers running length-wise under it, which held his clothes and extra blankets. He'd installed a small wood burning stove in the middle of the room and a sink with a hand pump was built across the other end. Over the sink he built a long narrow window that looked out onto his driveway and the Masardis Road beyond. He hung some flour sack curtains over the window and that was that. This modest, clean abode was his home.
He'd remained a bachelor all his life and when we asked him about this, he'd laugh and shout at us in his deep voice, "Do you know anyone who'd be fool enough to marry me?" We didn't quite know how to answer that because all of us kids thought he was pretty great.
When mother took us to visit our grandparents, which wasn't often, we'd beg to go and visit Uncle if he was home. We'd run the quarter mile down the Masardis Road to his house like an anxious husband on his honeymoon.
It was such a delight to visit his small, warm abode. Uncle had been a mule tender in Kentucky during the First World War and when he'd finally come marching home again, he walked with a pronounced limp. We all thought he was a bonafide war hero and had been shot in the leg by the Confederate soldiers but when we asked him about his limp and where all his medals were, he roared with laughter and explained that he hadn't been shot at all, that he'd simply been kicked in the leg by an ornery mule.
The first things you noticed when you opened the door to his small building were the smells of the lineament that he rubbed on his leg and the smell of his chewing tobacco. His little ten by twenty foot living space was always immaculate and his bed, which was covered with several colorful patchwork quilts, made by himself or one of our relatives, was always made no matter what time you went to see him.
Uncle washed all his things by hand and he hung everything above his pot bellied woodstove to dry. He'd hang his long woolen socks up by the toes and the water dripping off the drying socks would dance and sizzle across the top of the hot stove. The smell of the wet wool from his drying clothes always permeated the air. He used to laugh and tell us that his socks were always hanging there, ready for Santy Claus.
Because he loved children so much, it was a shame that Uncle Barney never married and had some children of his own. It was bad luck for him but good luck for us kids. Unlike his brother, our grandfather, Uncle loved kids, all of us kids and there were many for him to love.
Every time mother looked out the window and announced that Uncle was coming, we'd immediately be filled with two very differing emotions, joy and fear. He'd stomp into the house, pull off his old woolen hat and look around the room for us and we'd die a thousand deaths. The smaller kids would run and grip mother's skirts in a death hold. Then, overcome with curiosity, they'd peer out from behind her body to see what Uncle was going to do next.
He'd stand there in the middle of the kitchen with his eyes searching for the first victim and then with a mighty roar, he'd pounce! We'd gasp and freeze where we were, struggling to catch our breaths and with our hearts thudding in our chests. He'd swoop us up with his large, square gentle hands and rub our faces hard against his unshaven whiskery cheeks and crush us against him in such a bear hug that our ribs wouldn't unkink for about a week. He'd reach into his coat pocket and bring out a handful of pink peppermints or some other treat that he'd bought in town to give to all of us. Oh, how we loved him! He was our real life Santa Claus. He never came visiting without bringing something for mother or us kids.
When we were fortunate enough to be allowed to go for a visit to his house, we'd run the quarter of a mile down the road to see him. He'd open the door and we'd pour through, breathless and so excited. His little house held so many treasures for us. Underneath his bed he kept his battered old violin and after the proper amount of begging and pleading, he'd drag it out and proceed to play it fiddle-style. It was enchanting to say the least. Over the years, we heard his complete repertoire over and over again but each time, it seems as though we were hearing the tunes for the very first time. We'd climb upon his patchwork bed and sit quietly with our feet dangling over the edge while he played his tunes and danced around to entertain us.
Uncle was a ‘master carpenter' by trade but he also had developed a keen interest in geology. Over the years he'd assembled quite a rock collection which he'd let us examine whenever we wanted. He even had a few gold nuggets and pieces of silver which he kept in small glass bottles. We'd pick them up and turn them over and over in our grubby hands while Uncle explained exactly what they were and how they'd been formed eons ago. I have loved rocks all my life and I believe that we learned more about rock formations from those impromptu visits to Uncle's than we ever did in school.
Around nineteen fifty-five, there was cause for much excitement in our family. Uncle had been out on another prospecting trip on the land he owned behind his home and came back one day very excited and acting very mysterious. He had a large, heavy burlap sack loaded across his shoulders and everyone teased him about finding gold. He merely looked at them with a gleam in his amber eyes and said, "And don't you think it ain't out there, by Jaysus!"
The very next morning he took himself and the mysterious bag off to the local assayer's office in Presque Isle. Mr. Pike, the assayer, carefully examined the rocks and stated that he thought he knew what they were but to be completely certain, he'd have to send some pieces off to the Bureau of Mines in Augusta for confirmation. Uncle reluctantly handed over his precious samples and he waited with baited breath for the days to pass and finally the message came that he was to return to the assayer's office.
When he arrived, there was another man, along with the assayer, waiting there for him. The assayer introduced Uncle to a Mr. Jordan who stated that he worked in Augusta for the State of Maine in the Mines and Minerals Division. Mr. Jordan proceeded to inform Uncle that he had indeed made a rare mineral discovery. Uncle, his amber eyes snapping with excitement and suspicion, rubbed his jaw and waited. Then, Mr. Jordan told Uncle that the samples contained a large quantity of uranium and copper with a fair amount of gold mixed in. Uncle nodded his head in agreement but he still didn't say a word.
Mr. Jordan looked at him for a couple of seconds and then finally he said the words that made Uncle's blood run cold. "Mr. Colbath, do you realize that the State of Maine holds all the mining rights to any mineral discoveries made in the state?" Uncle never took his eyes off Mr. Jordan as he continued, "It is your obligation as a citizen of the great State of Maine to divulge the exact location of this mineral find, to me, immediately."
That was all Uncle needed to hear. He hadn't taken orders since he'd been in the Army and he hadn't liked it then and he didn't like it now! He slapped his old woolen cap back onto his bald head and stood up. He looked Mr. Jordan straight in the eye and said. "If you think I'm going to hand my discovery over to those sons-ah-whores down to Augusta, you've got another think comin! You want to know where I found this stuff? It's up your ass and turn left!" With that, he yanked his sample-filled burlap bag off the counter and headed for the door. He slammed the door so hard that all the rock samples, which were lined-up in little glass bottles on the assayer's office shelves, danced a merry little jig.
Uncle seethed and smarted for quite a while but there was no way of getting around the law so he quietly sold his samples to the assayer and with that money he promptly bought himself a new Buick automobile. However, he never did tell anyone, friends or family, the whereabouts of his mineral deposit. He took that secret with him to his grave.
Uncle loved to go hunting and fishing and as he got older, it was often difficult for him to get around as much as he had in the past. Usually, the younger members of the family would take it upon themselves to include him in their hunting and fishing plans. He never lost his enthusiasm for either sport till the day he died.
Uncle was very generous with his time and talent. He was a master carpenter by trade and in the early years, when he was a young man, he'd learned his craft as an apprentice shipbuilder along the coast of Maine at the Bath Shipyard.
Since Aroostook County is a long way from the coast, Uncle didn't have much call to build many boats. Mostly, he built barns, garages, outhouses, potato houses and plain old houses and if he built a house for anyone in the family, he'd make the owners agree not to sell the house to anyone else in their lifetime. It was one of his little quirks. He just wanted to be sure that the building that he'd worked so hard on and built so perfectly, remained in our family for as long as it could.
When he was well into his late sixties, he suddenly announced one day that he was going to build a ‘boat." Whenever he was questioned more closely about his "boat" he'd become very vague and with a twinkle in his eye reply, "That's for me to know and for you to find out, by Jaysus!" And go merrily on his way.
Soon everyone in the surrounding area had gotten wind of his plans and his progress was the talk of the town. His many trips back and forth to town with large loads of lumber caused my father to remark that, "This was going to be interesting to say the least."
It was a hot, sultry morning in May when Uncle commenced to building his "boat." He checked and rechecked his plans and carefully laid out the lumber. From that day on, he could be found at almost any hour of the day, from sun up to sun down, sawing, nailing, sanding or chiseling away on his "boat." All his old cronies and strangers alike made it a point to stop by Uncle's yard at regular intervals to check on his progress.
As the "boat" finally began to take shape and its true dimensions became obvious, folks would scratch their heads and ask him, "Which ocean did he plan on floating her in?" Uncle would look at the inquirer with a light dancing in his dark brown eyes, laugh and kept on working. Folks began commenting amongst themselves that "Unk's boat was even bigger than his house." Some even dared to hint that he'd "Taken leave of his senses, if he'd had any to begin with!"
But Uncle was determined and he wouldn't be deterred. He cut every rib of that boat with such precision that when it was finally time to assemble it, the pieces fit together like a puzzle. He'd hold his callused fingers against the sanded wood and walk back and forth from stem to stern to see if there were any rough spots that he might have missed. When he'd determined that the sanding was perfection, he began to coat the boat with varnish. He varnished and sanded so many times that folks lost count of the coats and sandings.
As the boat building progressed through one season to another of the long, hot summer, he was molested by every insect imaginable. The hoards of mosquitoes, black flies, horseflies, mingies and no-see-ums were never ending and there would always be a thick black cloud of one kind or another swarming around Uncle's head. When one bit him in a vulnerable spot, he'd forget what he was doing and swing his varnish covered brush at the spot that was bitten, bleedin or burnin or a combination of all three and by the end of the day, his face, neck and bald head would be covered with globs of dead insects trapped in hardened varnish. Uncle would carefully peel those globs of varnish off himself, laugh and say that the clumps were amber and he was going to sell them to all those fancy ladies down in New York City to make jewelry out of and he was goin to get rich!
Finally, the "boat" was completed! Cars, pickup trucks and the like jammed the Masardis Road. All the rubber-neckers craned their heads to get a better view of the "boat." It was huge! It was bigger than his house! The hardened layers of varnish glistened and gleamed in the afternoon sun like a diamond in the middle of the Aroostook County forest. Folks, drivin down the Masardis Road, were momentarily blinded by the reflection of the sun off the side of the boat.
After having viewed the "boat," for himself, dad came home and made an announcement to mother. "Noah ain't the only one who has an ark! I just saw another one and it's sitting right in Uncle Barney's driveway." After that, the "boat" was jokingly referred to as "Uncle Barney's Ark."
Upon its completion, there was much speculation about whether or not the "God-damned thing" could even float. Everyone kept pestering Uncle to haul it out to Portage Lake or down to Squa Pan Stream and give it a go but Uncle Barney couldn't be induced to move her. Uncle never let all the ribbing or jokes bother him either. He'd listen to the good natured banter with a sparkle in his snapping brown eyes, slap his knees and roar with laughter along with everyone else.
The "Ark" remained propped-up in Uncle's door yard for a good many years, through the short summers and the arctic winters and he never did attempt to see if she would float. One day, when I was grown and married, I gathered my courage and asked him why he had never taken her out to sea or at least to Portage Lake. Uncle looked at me for the longest moment and then he said, "Toots, I don't need to know if she can float or not, I just wanted to see if I could build her!"
Uncle, who was well past eighty and whose health was beginning to fail, continued to live alone in his little house until the very end. Mother tried many times to get him to come and live out his final years with her and dad down at the Colbath family homestead but he steadfastly refused. He never did install a telephone all the years he'd lived alone, so he and mother worked out an emergency plan. He reluctantly agreed to replace his front door light with a red light bulb. In the event that he ever needed help, he said, he'd turn on the porch light and seein it, mother was to come down right away.
On that fateful night, when he finally decided that he needed help, he turned on the light. Unfortunately, there had been a very heavy snowfall during the night and a snow drift over the front porch completely covered the red light bulb. Our sweet Uncle Barney, died as he had lived, alone and proud and very much a man.
Copyright retained by the author, Martha Stevens-David 2008. She can be reached at lmdmsd@megalink.net.
