Six weeks ago, I heard the familiar, “Well, hello bean blossom.”
I gave him a hug and felt the new addition to his face – a scruffy, white beard. I loved it and told him so. He responded that it was the first time he had ever grown one, it was easier than shaving.
Today, I fly to Kentucky.
There will be no hello bean blossom greeting.
There will be no scruffy beard to scratch.
The death bell has tolled on the Frazier farm, so Zach and I return to bid farewell to Uncle Mac.
Uncle Mac will always be a larger than life character in my childhood memories. He was loud. He was boisterous. He was opinionated. He seemed to do everything as a career, and I have distinct memories of each.
A big, white barn. Wooden benches. Restless cows prodding into an arena. Confusion. A man behind an elevated podium, holding a microphone and talking fast. So fast. Uncle Mac, the auctioneer.
A man dressed in everyday work wear, a little suitcase in hand, walking to his car. A few hours later, the same man running up and down a basketball court with black pants and white/black striped shirt. Uncle Mac, the high school basketball referee.
A small building on the main street of Irvington – one door, one large plate glass window, one barber swivel swirl bolted by the door. A comb in one hand, clippers in another. Uncle Mac, the barber.
Fields, tractors, barns – Uncle Mac, the farmer.
Not surprisingly, Uncle Mac as the farmer is my most common memory. As a child running amok around the farm, it was not unusual to see him piddling or hear him yelling at us to get out of something. His warnings of do not tread here or there were usually heeded, because they tended to involve a deadly animal.
The upper barn is the perfect example of an Uncle Mac warning. The do-not-go-there because of a plethora of slithering snakes was the perfect deterrent for a wild child. For years, well into my adulthood, I gave that barn a wide berth. A few years ago, during a discussion of childhood moments, I mentioned this instilled fear of the barn. Uncle Mac scoffed and said, “I think I saw one or two snakes in there.” This induced a boisterous discussion on his warning, to which he denied making it sound so deadly.
A day of working cattle with my dad and Uncle Mac. I was sitting on the tractor, the usual perch for watching any farm work. A cow was being cantankerous, and Uncle Mac had a 2x4 in his hand for prodding. He held up the board to give a prod, but the cow turned her head and butted the board, only to promptly collapse, dead. I remember him declaring to my dad, “well, it’s dead.”
As I grew older, I began to experience and understand the notoriety of Uncle Mac. While small town renown is not unusual, I found it bewildering the number of times I was immediately asked, "Are you related to Mac Frazier?" when my family name was mentioned. A couple of years ago during a visit to Kentucky, I was hiking a new path when I passed a couple of gentlemen who were sitting for a rest. When I responded to their greeting, they cocked their heads and asked where I came from. Supplying the condensed version of my world movement beyond Breckinridge County, they asked my name. I supplied my maiden name – only to be interrupted with a “are you Mac’s relative?”
As with most memories of a person, it is a collage of moments. Breakfast on a porch in Florida during my brother’s wedding week. Uncle Mac and Aunt Susie dancing at my sister’s wedding. A huge tub of kielbasa on an island counter, Uncle Mac eating it with crackers. Sitting in a basement, surrounded by his model cars with baseball on the TV. Our lively banter of the merits between football (soccer) vs baseball. The distinct way he leaned over a counter with his head in his hands. His southern drawl. The way he looked at Zach and I when we walked through the door for our surprise Christmas visit. His joy in playing Rook. His love of car auctions. Actually catching him at McDonald’s for a breakfast date. The toothpick in his mouth. The way he wore his hats. His laugh at receiving a squirrel head animal feeder for Christmas. Touring Salt Lake City with him, Mom, and Aunt Susie during a True Value Market. His jokes and repeated phrases.
To my grandparents, he was a son. To one, he was called husband. To three, he was called brother. To three, he was called brother-in-law. To two, he was called father. To many, he was called uncle and grandfather. To some, he was called friend. To others, he was called family.
To me, he was an uncle who stepped into the role of grandfather.
Farewell, Uncle Mac, your bean blossom will miss you fiercely.
I gave him a hug and felt the new addition to his face – a scruffy, white beard. I loved it and told him so. He responded that it was the first time he had ever grown one, it was easier than shaving.
Today, I fly to Kentucky.
There will be no hello bean blossom greeting.
There will be no scruffy beard to scratch.
The death bell has tolled on the Frazier farm, so Zach and I return to bid farewell to Uncle Mac.
Uncle Mac will always be a larger than life character in my childhood memories. He was loud. He was boisterous. He was opinionated. He seemed to do everything as a career, and I have distinct memories of each.
A big, white barn. Wooden benches. Restless cows prodding into an arena. Confusion. A man behind an elevated podium, holding a microphone and talking fast. So fast. Uncle Mac, the auctioneer.
A man dressed in everyday work wear, a little suitcase in hand, walking to his car. A few hours later, the same man running up and down a basketball court with black pants and white/black striped shirt. Uncle Mac, the high school basketball referee.
A small building on the main street of Irvington – one door, one large plate glass window, one barber swivel swirl bolted by the door. A comb in one hand, clippers in another. Uncle Mac, the barber.
Fields, tractors, barns – Uncle Mac, the farmer.
Not surprisingly, Uncle Mac as the farmer is my most common memory. As a child running amok around the farm, it was not unusual to see him piddling or hear him yelling at us to get out of something. His warnings of do not tread here or there were usually heeded, because they tended to involve a deadly animal.
The upper barn is the perfect example of an Uncle Mac warning. The do-not-go-there because of a plethora of slithering snakes was the perfect deterrent for a wild child. For years, well into my adulthood, I gave that barn a wide berth. A few years ago, during a discussion of childhood moments, I mentioned this instilled fear of the barn. Uncle Mac scoffed and said, “I think I saw one or two snakes in there.” This induced a boisterous discussion on his warning, to which he denied making it sound so deadly.
A day of working cattle with my dad and Uncle Mac. I was sitting on the tractor, the usual perch for watching any farm work. A cow was being cantankerous, and Uncle Mac had a 2x4 in his hand for prodding. He held up the board to give a prod, but the cow turned her head and butted the board, only to promptly collapse, dead. I remember him declaring to my dad, “well, it’s dead.”
As I grew older, I began to experience and understand the notoriety of Uncle Mac. While small town renown is not unusual, I found it bewildering the number of times I was immediately asked, "Are you related to Mac Frazier?" when my family name was mentioned. A couple of years ago during a visit to Kentucky, I was hiking a new path when I passed a couple of gentlemen who were sitting for a rest. When I responded to their greeting, they cocked their heads and asked where I came from. Supplying the condensed version of my world movement beyond Breckinridge County, they asked my name. I supplied my maiden name – only to be interrupted with a “are you Mac’s relative?”
As with most memories of a person, it is a collage of moments. Breakfast on a porch in Florida during my brother’s wedding week. Uncle Mac and Aunt Susie dancing at my sister’s wedding. A huge tub of kielbasa on an island counter, Uncle Mac eating it with crackers. Sitting in a basement, surrounded by his model cars with baseball on the TV. Our lively banter of the merits between football (soccer) vs baseball. The distinct way he leaned over a counter with his head in his hands. His southern drawl. The way he looked at Zach and I when we walked through the door for our surprise Christmas visit. His joy in playing Rook. His love of car auctions. Actually catching him at McDonald’s for a breakfast date. The toothpick in his mouth. The way he wore his hats. His laugh at receiving a squirrel head animal feeder for Christmas. Touring Salt Lake City with him, Mom, and Aunt Susie during a True Value Market. His jokes and repeated phrases.
To my grandparents, he was a son. To one, he was called husband. To three, he was called brother. To three, he was called brother-in-law. To two, he was called father. To many, he was called uncle and grandfather. To some, he was called friend. To others, he was called family.
To me, he was an uncle who stepped into the role of grandfather.
Farewell, Uncle Mac, your bean blossom will miss you fiercely.
