Many years ago Uncle Ralph confided to me that he was "miserable." That was the first time I'd ever heard anyone make such a claim. At the time, I didn't know what to make of it, but I never forgot it. I would come to know exactly what he meant, but it would take many years. It was Appalachian American Ennui. The cornerstone. In looking back, I realize that our paths diverged sharply; Ralph would become a gregarious social presence, and I would chronically avoid human gatherings, a trait that I've perfected over those intervening years. Who knows who was right and who was not. I want to say he was, but his relations never seemed to take. Around 1980 he and I and out dates were driving down Highway 62 in Petros. Drunk. He was in the back set complaining that I was "goin' to goddamn fast." When he had finally had about enough, he reached up and threw the automatic shifter in to Park while I was going 70 miles per hour. True story.
Ralph was a tavern owner by profession. And a good one. He presided over several. One, though, was special. It was a mobile beer joint. It actually had a ready to go wheel assemby so it could be taken to new venues if thing got too hot. It was basically a gambling house. Card games all night long. But, there was a bar, tended by my Uncle Billy Joe. Great times. I wish I could discuss them all. Better not.
The narrowing of life in the third act shrinks the outer flesh of supposed reality while emboldening the bones of honesty so that all comes ...
