A Queen City childhood.
My Uncle Jim has wild eyebrows and listens to NPR. For most of my life he drove one of the oldest Subarus still in working order but has recently made the switch to a Prius. He claims he can hear it hum when no one else can, even though he is mostly deaf now. I haven’t forgiven him for the switch yet. We were Subaru people, me and my uncle. We would ride around in that old Subaru for hours. It smelled like stale upholstery and the seat belt set too high on my neck. He would listen to Car Talk or Prairie Home Companion. While he was learning about brake pads or whatever was happening in Lake Woebegone, I would try to memorize all the roads in Charlotte. We would drive past Cotswald Mall and the big temple on Providence Road and look for flooding after big rains. He interrupted my thoughts with trivia questions. He wanted to keep my mind sharp so I would be able to learn as much as possible while my brain was young. “Young brains can handle the most information.” He took me to Charlotte Hornets games at the old coliseum that I still don’t know how to get to as an adult (doesn’t matter because you know how Charlotte likes to tear down buildings). He patiently explained the game to me but I was always too excited to be in a place where I could be loud without being scolded. I took in just enough of his explanations to know when i could whoop and holler. He would put me on his shoulders “so I could see” but I knew it was so my voice could travel down to the court from our nose bleed seats. I learned how to contract my diaphragm to push my voice. He taught me about being a yellow dog democrat and argued with my father, the “conservative ass” about politics. They seemed to enjoy the back and forth. I liked that he challenged my father. Most people didn’t. I studied his talking points so I could try it one day. He liked beer and was never too far from a pint glass. He burped a lot. Not burped, belched. The kind of belch that comes from drinking beer a little too quick. He would blame the sound on bullfrogs, which my younger sister and I would excitedly try to find. They always sounded so close but we never found one. He still likes beer but there don’t seem to be any bullfrogs around anymore.
He loved my Aunt Sarah.
After a long day of climbing the old Magnolia tree in the backyard, and helping Aunt Sarah in the garden(eating as much fresh okra as I could sneak), Uncle Jim would usher us into the den. He’d have the projection screen set up and giddily announce that he had found yet another Victor Borge performance. My aunt would squeal, grab my hands, and run with me to the couch to settle in for the evening. Victor Borge was funny and entertaining but I was a child who would have rather been watching cartoons. My Aunt Sarah thought Victor Borge was the pinnacle of hilarity and would laugh long after the credits. Her laugh was mesmerizing. It was deep and came from a place of unbridled joy. It sounded like freedom and being an adult. An adult woman. I couldn’t wait to grow up to be just like her. I would practice laughing like her in the bathroom so I could hear how the laugh sounded as it bounced off the tiled walls. It didn’t sound quite right but I was young still. My uncle never watched Victor Borge. He was too busy watching my aunt. He too was mesmerized by her. He would watch her with a contented smile, taking in every laugh as if his chest wouldn’t rise without them, never noticing me watching him.
This was everything I understood of love, and I couldn’t wait to find it for myself.
Thistle Porch 