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.
