Who Ya Gonna Call?

Some time ago, when I was 9 or 10, I would spend the night with my cousin Corrie on occasion. Who am I kidding? I was more like 13 or 14 before I could spend the night off without needing a midnight rescue phone call to my mama. Anyhow, at 13 or 14 I would go to Corrie’s for the night every now and again. And I loved it. Not just because of Corrie, though I love her, but I really love her mama and her daddy. Her Daddy especially. My Uncle Bubba.

You know, if you look up the name Bubba in the dictionary the definition is this:

Bubba:
Noun \buuuuuu’ buh\
A gentle giant, cuddly teddy bear, full of fun guy, brother, daddy, uncle. Found mostly in the blessed South, these guys are of extreme good nature, love Jesus, cuss a little, and would give you the XL shirt off their backs.
Habitats: Southern states, kitchen tables, La-Z-Boys

Or maybe it’s not in the dictionary, but that’s what it means. I mean, you can’t say “Bubba” without your lips half cocking in a curl at the corners. The name is just synonymous with joy.

Uncle Bubba has always been so sweet to me. Sometimes homesick, very talkative, always hungry (kindred spirits, here, y’all), push-my-boundaries-to-the-limit me. And he was still sweet despite the shenanigans us two girls used to concoct when together…he deserves a star or four in his crown…

Like the time Corrie and I thought it was an excellent idea to attempt bike riding in the new gunite pool just poured in their backyard. Beautiful white molded concrete bottom, pristine cool and clear water; it just begged for a jaunt with a mountain bike swim. Doesn’t it sound that way to you? Fast forward to a few laps underwater –sans helmet and bikini clad perched upon her Huffy — and one of us notices when you stand on the side of the pool and look down to the bottom, you can see tire tracks. Lots of tire tracks. The aquatic equivalent to a BMX dirt track. Lovely little lines that left nothing to the imagination of just where that bike had lay tread. Whelp. I’m not for sure how that issue was ever resolved or remember how the punishment went down, but I do know we didn’t see the whites of Bubba’s eyes for a good few days as he has a mean squint when he’s mad. But he didn’t stay that way for longer than that. He just can’t. He’s Bubba.

On very special occasions, i.e. the Saturday mornings after a Friday night slumber, Uncle Bubba would load us up in his Yardbusters van. This was a white and collard green-green colored van, complete with a decal-ed-man pushing a lawn mower with grass clippings flying — like a “Flat Bubba” character — emblazoning the outside of it. It said “YARDBUSTERS” in large letters and 883-0834 on the side, his calling card on wheels. Who ya gonna call? Yardbusters! The inside smelled like gasoline and fresh cut grass, while it sounded like a battle ship. The rattle of well worn yard equipment was magnified by every bump in the road and the noise of it made a beautiful composition with the crackling radio tunes and the incessant chatter of this girl in the back of the van. On mornings like this, I was privileged enough to get to ride bird dog between the lawn mower and the hedge trimmer, with a red plastic gasoline tank as my backrest, mouth watering and eyes wide as we would pull into the Hardee’s drive through just up the road from their house. Every time, he’d ask what we wanted, and I don’t know about Corrie’s menu choice, but without fail I got biscuits and gravy with a medium sprite every.single.time. Mmmmmm. That last sentence made my mouth water just thinking about it. Those biscuits and gravy tasted divine, like the Hardees here in Albany had 5 Michelin stars, and that Sprite slurped from a straw out of that wax covered paper cup had to be the nectar of some exotic fruit found in Eden. And when I close my eyes and breathe deep, I can smell the divine combination of unleaded fuel and butter and biscuits and love…love, but mostly gasoline…Love fuel. Man, I treasured those days. Still do.

Uncle Bubba got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer not too many moons ago. Regrettably, I’ve not seen him or talked with him since the word got to me about his pancreas that was diseased with the 6 letter word. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him and talked to God about him often. I’ve journeyed down memory lane –the long and winding path it is — a time or two, too, and I smile just thinking about that.

And my hope is that when he reads this, he smiles too. That sweet, big grin that makes his eyes squint up with joy, (not the squint from our Tour de Pool) and that he feels all the love I’m sending him. The kind of love you feel when your belly’s all full of peppered white gravy and buttery biscuits, all full, and your nostrils all full of the sweet smell of grass and gasoline…

and love.

Lots of love.